it is number 13
a thunder ball
in my mind.
who is james bond
he is ficticious.
elephant is not.
we got up too early,
went back to bed.
with a cup of tea.
sometimes the boy plays on his own, in water.
sometimes it can’t be helped.
the pies are warm,and full of the tenderest
meats and gravy. which helps the day when
the belling is broke.
the bags came greasy, left in the litter bin
nearby, the boy stopped playing
and we wondered if the water was cold.
the bank cuts by,
the path next the
air is clean here,
sailors are honest
about the weather.
it is a good idea
to visit each year.
as i passed i saw the room, coal on your table,
spread neatly. wondering i glanced around,
saw the snowy underwear on hangers,
it all showed pride and i know
you have seen it too. raddled
face in mirrors, knowing that we
are all much the same, without
meetings and disagreements.
must we write about it before we forget,
before people come and disagree?
they have small waists and a national costume.
there have been planes about, someone is missing.
the old room needed cleaning and through the cat
slide neatly framed flew two hercules, heavy bird
it is a cleaner window now, rain hits the glass,
noise is monumental.
someone is missing.
of something in the air, can you feel it?
the cat has drank the milk again, while
we were busy yesterday.
much to be done, much to be read
while all this is going on we
see the news and
still find nougat wrappers
on the floor.
what does this mean, about a change of bed,
clothes. everyone does it, not a big chore.
when they do not have a home
a bed. think on it. think on a
broken body, broken mind.
flight. imagine it white with feathers,
it is an old room and as i change the bed
i think of you.
i regret the dust and crooked floor with
fondness, then as i lay the clean sheet
not yet tucked, imagine you laying your
think on this.
it seem there is a gardener in that village,
that will not prune, will cut every shrub
if a walk takes you slowly round.
you may see every place
someone said you need
a day out to find some
oh absalom, my son, my son.
cry out, travel miles to
pray for him, the note
says all is disorder.
travel miles to tell those who
cannot hear, nor listen.
yet. if you cannot believe all
that is told, find a place your
never mind the ancestors, absalom