variegations of lost memory she is lost when she wakes which is mercifully seldom she is cold she says so often and to the touch pleading always for home, for the warmth of the grave but kisses your arm as you keep her from there he returned from Rhodesia the year I was born a speedway rider for England and a welder in a copper mine spent eight years near the equator the best years of his life his children born there before it all blew up yes, your daughter has your watch the optician has your eye the hearing aids are in for repair and as you repeat these questions so shall we repeat these answers innumerable times each day in the EMI lounge is a plaque Theres no place like home and this is truly, no place like home but even if it were they would not know it imprisoned as they are without cogniscence of present, imperfect as it is he used to run twenty miles at the age of twenty and think nothing of it he never thought he would be so dependent on others there are two paintings adorning his walls but the jar of brushes the oil pastels and the palette remain untouched a woman throws her drinks over anyone she is aggressive and sad scratches arms of passersby wants to live does not know how to die another asks after her husband he visited earlier did he really? yes, he did there are words but they do not fit together just the salivatory gurgles of those who have come once more to childhood two jackdaws enter the victorian chimney one after another with their throaty chirrups above the sunlit trellis bedecked in jasmine a mighty tree in full leaf says nothing swaying gently in the summer breeze
Posted on: Sun, 18 May 2014 13:36:11 +0000
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