New poem




Under his upturned shack,

On the head of a clear river flood,

Empty bottles of vodka chiming in the sticks

He’s celebrating the death of his wife.

The sediment of 10 years washing away

And coming to rest on a bank of

Silt and willow branches.


If I was there with you I would hold your hand

And have enough forgiveness for the two of us.

Its not fair that all those years were spent hunched in a shed

Over who knows what mechanical intricacies

When outside, the sun was shining

And the waters were level.


Still in your pyjamas, drinking

Long days of sleep follow late nights with the same pot of

Tea stewing on the gas jet

And the TV tuned to a test pattern.

No new knowledge swamped the living room and

All was lost for want of a mental tool

That shapes into readiness

Any kind of pain.









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