Net fence sags under the weight
of a dozen trees chopped and thrown.
A day sun refuses to grace this land,
refuses me an iota of warmth or aid.
Shivering, I grumble at the inadequacy
of language, of invisible barriers, of men
whose minds – occupied with matters
that involve no fault or judgement – err,
creating gaps in the fabric. I plead reason
for explanations. Why, I ask, tossing
my hands skyward. Moving a wall of wood,
mending a stretched gate, I fill the breach
to keep out hungry beasts. Yes, my security
should be a matter of concern to you, sir.
My weakness, weak-kneed unwillingness
to think for you, follows me, my own private
miasma of disbelief. Can it really be true?
Grey clouds blot out absent sun. Grateful...
In touch with my gap, I cannot pardon yours.
You require a diagram, a drawing in the sand,
the nature of this – my reality, to understand.
Opaque you are with the Other's impenetrability.
I'm left with my words bouncing back on me.
Perhaps next time you'll allow what I mean.