Fridayam's BlogA final thought on a dignified day
An empty tomb, without trophies,
grave-goods, food for the dead,
sacrificed servants, horses or their
caparisons, armour or
weapons, fine linens, dried flowers,
images of warriors, scenes of
pomp or nature or love or
lust, naked of
grinning bones or dust,
holding nothing but
immured air.
He swore he heard her on the
upper floor, or
at the door, her key
scratching for entry from the
outer dark, or her soft
snores in the night,
turning to his right,
hoping to feel her
spooning warmth to
heal his sores.
I dream sometimes of seeing
someone else’s spaceship amongst the
stars above my house, its
tell-tale amniotic burn unequivocal
unlike the odd unflashing jet that
just seems to evaporate into the
overcrowded air, into the
mad world of my Masters,
under the big W, under
Cassiopeia
She gave me birth, he fathered me;
he turned down the Croix de Guerre because his
donkey got one too;
she descends from Joan of Arc’s bad brother;
I held her still bloody from her mother;
he died a few weeks back, and at his
funeral I saw him and her, and
those two bickering;
he’s bigger than me now, but his first school shirt
still sits in my drawer;
she is still as beautiful as when I
caught her then, unaware of a lens.
Us, our children, our parents and theirs,
sisters, brother, nephews, nieces: all adorn our
dark hall, framed against time but still
silently fading.
Like dribs of rain on a drab day your
worries leaked through the roof making
puddles in the public rooms that I
couldn’t hide or adequately
explain to those astounded by the
unexpected deliquescence of your
seemingly solid persona.
The past smoulders long in the memory,
the savour of its sticky,
woody smoke seeping from
long-forgotten photographs, clothes
neatly folded in attic-buried trunks,
documents—letters, bills, old
school-reports, medical files, certificates
(marriage, birth, achievements or the
lack thereof)—even the scent of
old spices in stove-worn pans.
The smoke hangs in the autumn trees
catching the low light, silhouetting the
stubbornness of spiders, every branchlet
webbed, every web freighted with tiny
droplets of dew, each as clear, as
murky as a memory.
Fall fell through the
crack in the floorboards, and we
tore them up, desperate to
stave off Winter.
Maybe we could burn them
if we cannot find that
lost shiny coin, our
last memory of Summer?
I
New Moon
rocks in its cradle
blissfully unaware.
II
Young Moon bashfully hides behind
curtains of cloud, scared by
all those eyes turned on her.
III
Half Moon, half adult,
half kid, uncertain,
slutty, defiant.
IV
Gibbous Moon, sure she’s pregnant,
remembers no father or parents to be
mad, determined to go to term.
V
Full Moon doesn’t give a shit, splashes her
cash about the sky, free of any
doubt or shame.
VI
Gibbous Moon bemoans her
mommy-belly, is wistful and wonders if
there’s a gym nearby.
VII
Half Moon has a terminator to die for but
worries something else is
eating her inside.
VIII
Old Moon looks at what’s left, remembers
reaching out a lazy foot to
rock a baby.
IX
No Moon gives the stars once,
and once only,
free rein.
X
New Moon
rocks in its cradle,
blissfully
unaware.
We are all mongrels:
our genes all spent time
somewhere else, on
cold tundra, windswept
steppe, damp jungle,
hot savannah, in
bogs or genteel shires,
cantonments or kraals; on
Viking ships or galleons,
slavers or dugout canoes we
spent ourselves about the world so
not one of us is pure.
Equinoctial winds fill September’s sails:
she creaks, complains, strains
ropes that must be loosed, and slips
inevitably away.
We run along the foreshore desperate to
keep her in sight, but the
horizon demands her and
suddenly she’s gone, just as the
first ember sail of Autumn
pierces the dusk.
Her berth is ready, roofs repaired,
windows fastened: for
fleet following her are the
Black Ships of Winter,
one by one.
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