Sitting out light-fail with little-boy-big
afternoon of shopping stashed well away,
ebbing by the dark hedge oh, well-a-day
past-cursed, time-eaten (smashed with the crashed gig).
Yet here we were, bleached grasses breeze-stirring,
comely skeletons, seed-heads bragging,
Joe, between palilalia* dragging,
says, "Cheer up."
"OK Joe." Something's burring.
I deepen-down-in where the chest slows, stills
and pulses of evening traffic slew, slur
ineffable phrases, childhoods concur.
Until, at the totter of sorrow's scree,
it jolt-occurs to me you are awake.
Time apportioned the cobbles of that rake
is past, and night shall fall amicably.
This wormhole traveller re-enters space;
doffs helmet, lights compassion in his face.
.................
*It's the repetition, in this case of (self-made) phrases. Sometimes nigh whole sentences in Joe's case.
YOU ARE READING
Greenclad.
PuisiIvy-jacketed, December oaks on road-borders shock their stark gestures at us now, through sun and sleet, that January will yawn at and February, propping eyelids, will desperately ignore, longing for blossom; and making do with the least of anything...
