wrap the house around you, then leave it. out into the only world you know. anxiety comes with the unfamiliar. they call down the chimney.
so i will go back. look at the buildings. two museums hiding,. look at the buildings,
this is a mill town.
wrap the house around you, then leave it. out into the only world you know. anxiety comes with the unfamiliar. they call down the chimney.
so i will go back. look at the buildings. two museums hiding,. look at the buildings,
this is a mill town.
are you afraid?
did you
wonder why some of us come private?
maybe a result of intrusion
finding letters opened or not finding them at all
until too late
that is why i am afraid
finding these memories difficult
to relate
may abstain in despair
to say it all caused great harm
really
as did your request for him to hit me for wearing old trousers
that is why i am afraid
yes it is slate
tipped over from higher up
the quarry is closed this side
subsidence
the other side it is still worked
though further than before
as there is now a visitor
attraction
for tourists
so we don’t go there
anymore
is that feeling that comes of an autumn afternoon at a particular moment just before the squirrel arrives timely
for food
that feeling that arrives with the name of the county
the memory of your home and closeted life
now eroding slowly
that sense of belonging to the land
it is that feeling
…that
they say my brother
would walk to Sherry’s
for the stales with a pillow
case to carry they say
he never ate none on
the way home and i
wonder if that is true
later years gran would
take me in the shop
to buy fresh
she favoured the cream horns.
we listen to the rain early
with mixed feelings
there may not be gardening done today
there may be drawings
my beetle, dead, not buried. i keep them, yet it fell to the floor, mysteriously lost. we try to turn disasters round, here, knowing it will be found, some time. my dear sweet sexton, the burying kind.
i learn about sub soil, all things growing,
the logistics of death.
just stand and watch the season change, note the dew and separate ideas. remember that you stand alone. are not alone from criticism and contradiction.
beetles here turn over, legs waving, we turn them back, then, it is all repeated. empathy kicks in for all small folk who suffer, who cry in dark corners.
yet i have mislaid the black beetle too.
it was some time ago we lost.the sexton.
that feeling, that .
arrives unexpected from darkness, some winters’ mornings,
opening the door to the sound of one black bran bird calling.
track four repeated. that
comes on waking finding peace and comfort bound in clean
linen.
arises with perfume, an uncertain memory.
it may be chemicals, peptides in the brain as love, what
ever the germ or warfare
I find no word to describe, no random feather nor dust on
my plate. pass a finger.
that feeling of trimmed nails upon the keys pounding
words and silences.
while music plays. that feeling. that.
syrup stings my tongue.
she said she liked the stories
except I did not tell them
i never tell you much
nor all of it
there are bits left to fill in
yourselves
make some thing of the scratches and nibs,
home in on detail
and begin
to enjoy
the cuts and scrapings.
days come darker still
considering the night
white they peer
sadly into empathy
faces cloud
shoulders bowed