drizzling today – but at least it’s warm.
I sit, legs
dangling on the sandstone garden wall.
I am trying hard,
to make my final sweet
last, until tea time
yet I somehow
doubt it will.
a man in with Mama who I don’t recall
ever seeing before.
are sitting side by side eating strawberries
I really hope they
save some for me.
Their voices are low – but every now and
I can here Mama laugh.
She doesn’t laugh that
often – I guess
that’s how I notice it so, when she does.
I swallow my sweet, feeling annoyed with myself
for being so greedy.
I wish they would hurry up and finish whatever
it is, they’ve got to say.
Eventually I hear the sound of the
front door being rattled open.
Sometimes in the really wet weather
the door sticks –
Mama hit it with a pick axe once, made
no difference other than it broke the handle.
For months afterwards we used a spoon
to turn the lock until finally an old friend
came to fix it –
‘free of charge’ Mama said!
side by side out they came – he looked full of himself to me.
Mama acted all surprised on seeing me.
Can’t think why – she had told me to sit there.
started making funny head gestures towards the house.
down from the wall – but not before
the man had
strolled towards me.
I could smell those strawberries on his thick beer laden breath. He took some sweets from his pocket, holding them out to me.
nodded for me to accept – so I took them.
soon expertly rummaging
in amongst the bright coloured wrappers
looking for my favourite.
Some of Mamas words got a
little lost as I unwrapped the sweets.
However, I think I heard
‘Mary, say hello to your new Daddy’.
I smiled – at least this one brings me sweets…
We sit, sharing your scotch and soul
renouncing the new, none nobility who
reside down the hall.
You colour me a story, about art reflecting life.
Where contrived painters, daub
their disjointed views, onto canvas’s
pinned to fragile walls of hope and hate.
Maybe I say.
But what about the unnoticed poets, who freed
their private thoughts
in black and white, pressed
between the pages new.
Works, where few,
seldom seem to go these days
until the writers been buried, deep
and in debt.
Then, up they rise
the new age, poetic apostle – airing
all those long faded, dusty words.
Bringing home to them, some posthumous
unheard of, literary award.
Well then, you smile.
It would seem that death does
have some rewards – so please before
you leave, my dear: