past

A Man Trapped, Now, Outside

Dew drops came

Thick, sticky

Things in the mist,

Gone as soon as

Seen, washed

In the morning rain.

Inside,

His sorrow bled his

Soul and gauged

The pupils deeper

Through his eyes,

Bored through brain.

Pain pools welled

Round these holes,

And bounced

The light back, blue,

Ungrateful at the

Interrupted shade.

Thoughts welled up

Inside his head,

Of loved ones

Crudely detached,

Cords severed,

Mid-flight.

The restaurant

Dimmed, she,

Opposite, receded

Into Silence, as

The Past caved

In, confining him

To Memory’s passages,

Flickering, beckoning,

Grim.

Occasionally, sounds,

From above,

Outside the cave,

Her voice, something

Trivial, no guidance

Through these tunnels,

Only proof of Present

Beyond his prison,

Past.

　

3 Thoughts

 

Save me a tune when the light

 Is gone

Make my mind sweet with

That thick sound,

A compliment, well sent,

Swelling up from the tender

Root of a heart entwined

With mine

In knots, the wynd and bind,

Again and again.

Cut me a rope I can use

To climb down, down to

A place where I can sit

And eat lunch in peace, thoughtful

For the morning, eager for the

Afternoon, but happy on the bench, whatever’s in

The box.

Still, sitting by his side,

The sage who knew all

And spoke it freely

With tea and rich tea,

One leg here, the other

In Italy, 1945.

 (23rd August 2009)

A house on a London terrace

The house was built in 1864 or thereabouts

With bricks and mortar

In the usual way,

Set down on the street

‘Tween two just the

Same.

No, I lie. Next

Door was a shop,

Greyed out now, modern

Style, frosted windows, the works.

Behind doors to the house of

A family, bent by

Chance into odd-

Shaped rooms, tombs

For the spirits of eras

Passed, mingling now and

Then with the plates on

The rack or a glass in the

Cupboard, no harm meant.

After twenty five years

No surprise at a flying saucepan.

A family lived in the house,

Part of it, kin to it,

Whatever its freight.

Besides, after twenty five years, they

Had their own ghosts as guests,

Those former selves in former

Times living on,

Resonating in overlapping lines.

The cello practice, the barking

Dog, the sleeping dog,

The trampoline, the one that

Broke, the roller blades,

The skipping rope.

The time when budgies tweeted

In the kitchen

And Ma cooked at 6 for me

And 8 for him, again.

The time when garden’s shade

Was less and next door neighbour

Had a cat called…called….

Times gone but still present

In the ether, round the stairs, up the blocked chimney,

Or the skylight, then

Down, over mossy steps

And at the back door, again,

With a ratataptap, like a

Ghost..

No, it must be Jack

The new next door neighbour’s

Cat.

Published in Balladof Magazine, October 2009