The Bridge

The Bridge. pic

 

a chasm exists between us

that spans so many lost years

so much neglect and all of it mirrored in his dark eyes

My first son, long lost, not yet found

sits at a table with me and we are so close

to fumbling over words and hurt

that we are like young  lovers

without power over the letters we seek to shape

into a definition of that sense of loss that is

a survivors guilt and the need to attribute blame

His dark, thirty year old eyes are lamps

that shine on the space that divides us

and they tell me that nothing I can say will do

so I hope as I hug him and say goodbye

that some things can be repaired

I sometimes grieve

Dolls on offer

 

I sometimes grieve

for my place sewn into history

sensing the loss

the uselessness of my contribution

so far

how my past is a honeycomb of spaces

and yawning faces

the time left behind fallow

as in a forgotten field

bordered by vigorous weeds

their colours livid and clinging to

footpaths and bridleways whose intimations go unheeded

and now, NOW

the road is lost

though I know you share it with me

because the ache inside

can’t all be mine

Expectant

Expectant. pic

I want more

That is my condition. My dread

I am the eager hunger

a lust of want on margins

imagined, never seen

Of echoes, shreds of neverbeens

dying coals and finite seams

that refuse to manifest.

Perhaps it is all pornography

it’s crooked lines on pure white paper

and stains on beauty where promises

were never kept.

What is left is a crust

of tears, wind-dried

a legacy that anthropologists will find

and with it kindly trace a history

from something

I never knew

Castaway

Castaway

I am sat

stark naked on a sunday morning

reviewing the dark past,

and stewing

with those tangled, escaping memories

over my part in all of that.

And on a blank sheet of paper,

white, beside me, waiting, innocent,

a pubic hair.

Insouciant. Detached from me

lazing absently

Laughing at incongruity.