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.