Just another one of those days
That old hand is here again
Pushing down
Pushing
Pushing down
Leaden limbs
Not cold and polished marble
By Bernini
Heavy, grey
Grey and heavy
Like lead
Leaden limbs
The head a hive
Thoughts swarm, buzz, fly
Hover, swarm
Angry bees
3am
5am
Some time about then
That old hand is here again
Pushing
Pushing down.
Empty Nest
Brass doorhandle, grubby gold
Fingerprints on polished rimu,
Smudges of past hands passing.
The green chair, seats two, now one,
Brocaded cloth the colour of old forests,
Leaves looped and curling. Time.
Gaudy splash of colour on glass table,
The magazine heralds another step to uncertainty,
Screams war, weapons, world!
Reflected in the mirror, grape-purple glass flask,
Stopper like a rounded jewelled stone,
A present, magical, from children, long ago.
Outside, children play, teasing
Laughter, rattle of skateboards,
The occasional murmur of a passing car.
Photograph in cracked eggshell frame
Grey, white, fragile yet strong like children’s
Laughter on a beach, leaping shining waves.
Through the window, the lawn lies parched,
Seer yellowness of summer,
Dandelions, heads high, defiant.
“The grass needs mowing again,” says Sophie.
Link of past and present, here, now, gone.
“I’ll see to it tomorrow,” I reply.
