And the light of faces in the shimmering blue
bog-land, leaving red graze-marks
brief flittings of fire-light
on the window;
A welling up of water
softening this pensioner muck
this wrapping of roots
and calligraphy of sinew
a card that's full of well well wishes
I hear the strings and roaring
in the soft recesses of Orchid
the "it must be" in the rocks outside
the shirked duty of care in that man
as he drives,
the round-about ways,
the way the soil delays
any trust in the world outside
from coming to fruition.
from coming and from coming from
from rushing to wonder where you belong?
have you thanked God sometimes
looking into the wildeness
of hard stone laid down
that your child-hood answers were all wrong?
I turn aside and flick up the songs on my mp3 player,
some of them take me back to cleaning the windows
in the cloister, when the school was empty and all the empty
desks-drawers, books and furniture had to be piled up and
rearranged, as the whole host of new faces
would be coming soon, coming from their long and painful
ardours of Summer.
There is a song reminds me of a girl
or girls, and now in the whirling into night countryside
I'm still thinking of bright places, and bright rays
the way that pannel on the floor twirled us round
first time past gloomy mountains into town
on the first tram
gripping the yellow bars with our hands
she had a look of sunshine in her hair
that would be stereotypical if it wasn't so true
but then again it might be
just this angsty teenager song
that makes the memory seem like new.
It was ages ago
Possibly cheap advice in a book saying
"only write down what you know."
And soon as I got to the house in the country
I'd drop my pen
Forget whatever water nymph was in my head
In those Summer weeks
Id think down beside the wooden wall
In someone elses house
"Go home and start all over again."