It occurs to me we never had much chance
(getting a wet bum on the edge of a garden chair,
sky still spitting rain,
the cross dog's 'Piss-off!' yell again,
leaning on a breadboard to keep the paper dry),
that I never knew you; I
never could be sure of you,
unlike my wife,
even in separation.
Despite your text addiction,
the hundred 'love you soes'
a day (Where are my kisses? )
or because of it
never really chilling,
couldn't take my eye off the ball.
You under too much pressure
to be settled with me: leaving children,
(Mummy's fortnightly gruelling drives
to be reunited with her little brood);
commuting to your job at six a.m.,
without the grind of other ins and outs
beyond fab sex and our fine cooking - yes
we did have the time of a whale!
But you didn't believe in letting grass grow
under your feet - driven, riven, shadowed,
grief-haunted, tormented.
You never let a quarrel really drop
several days after, sadness welling up
or hidden indignation
squirrelled away...
My words are smearing, the blue
emperor-purple now
like the passages of prose I need to return to,
rites of passage.
YOU ARE READING
Gifts and Shards Vol 2
PoetryThis is the second and final volume of 'Gifts and Shards'. This takes us from the second month to now well over three years later, though there were many C poems in the collections tracking the seasons. There are no similar stories!
