The sitting

 The sitting

Late on a pale afternoon in January,

sitting, unmoving, the puff-chested blackbird.

She has been there for a while now,

just under the reflection of my reading lamp;

just the odd stretch of a wing and the thought

of preening the day down.

You cannot see it from there; don’t move!

It will scare her. We are sharing this

moment? Call it what you will.

Soon, too soon, she will be gone. Around, yes,

but busy nesting. Just like the pecking dunnock,

the darty robin, the acrobat tits.

But now, twelve lines written, and she is still there. 

The pallor of the day ivory poached; a north breeze

stirring; tea and scones have jammed the day.

She is still there, a sparrow riding shotgun. 

Sonny Rollins on the radio. 

Whoops!

She’s gone now.

She’s gone.

Oh John John

 oh but

the sun will come up

they say

  but

i know it

as well

as them

   but

tears freeze

when they melt 

the salt is still

   but

the moon is light

easy to carry

then the dawn

  but

that moment before

the moon sets

and the sun rises

but but but

  but oh

what the hell

eh? eh??

and then there are the windows

 

and then there are the windows

the ones with steamy tears

freezing into art

or the bottle-bottom ones

squirming at the thought

of the leaves trying to get in

or out depending on the thought

nailed in screeching down the panesss

the rolling races to the bottom

besmirch spoiled by the finger

pointing out the lights on the horizon

or the black ones reflecting

if outside is inside or vice versa

is in the eyes

the stark trees of winter 

corkscrewed by the rain

or the deciduous of summer

dancing green

the cracked ones loved

or neglected  lost to thoughts

of who they were  the dwellers

and can we see in on them 

even now

after the spiders have laced the shroud

the picture windows

the matrix panes with just one

or two shot out by time’s arrow

defenestrated - isn’t that what they say

of the rusty

the boundary condition

the stopping of flattened palms

leaving minds to wander alone

over the edges that draw blood

in the dust of a stopped thought

close them now

  please

i need to sleep

and there is this draught 

draw the curtains

lock the windows of inside out

the ingrowing toenail

 denial in the de-nailing of the toenail’s human rights

what’s left but ablation of the intention

be off with you I say

be gone 

ingrow no more

go - just go

sorry

it’s like one of them horror films

where the walls with spikes move in

unstoppable in their promiscuity 

a pandemic of global issues

incurable in their extinctions

no hope at all of steering through 

before the walls impale

the pallor of youth never to brogue

in the veined cheeks of age

or ring grey the eyes of looking

that sinking feeling on the marsh

with overpopulation floating upon the threat

of mass the extinction of any hope 

orphaned unnurtured terminal

the velocity of our demise 

repeated over and over 

it is true   but

the end 

seems so final - does it not

finally we see how blind we were

blind to the abyss

over the annihilation of hope

and that is the very end of it

unfortunately the anodyne word

for there will be no one left to hear

i am really sorry 

me I said

 me I said

for a minute there I had no idea where I was

where for a minute I had no idea I was there

there there I said to myself 

when someone answered

who are you

where did the voice come from

I asked 

where does the voice come from

it asked

me I said

A mirage

 It is a shock - isn’t it? - to come across a mirage and to realise that reality is not real after all. Like Ivy tearing the off the bark from your tree of life; all we see is the tracks of wood beetles where a love heart should be engraved. To laugh or to cry lingers at the edge.