Two more poems. They are both a type of meditation, with the first being prompted by the weather and the second being based more on a recollection from my youth - but with a link to the present too.
Death
This cold; this sun.
Remind me of my
first few days in Spain,
when sitting in shirt sleeves
in late December warmth,
seemed like a gift
Christmas forgot to wrap.
Now, it is necessity.
The sun is fix, not luxury.
The bright; the blue; the clarity:
combine, for days to form
a pattern that can
take me home.
Metaphor
The towel that I used today
was crimson red and,
as it dealt with wet,
I thought of Cornwall,
many years ago, on holiday,
St. Ives, in a Church Hall.
And lurid towels all set out
to catch an emmet’s eye.
My mother’s eye was duly
snared and handling the
yellow, blue and red,
she asked the gawky youth
who stood behind the stall,
‘And are they fast?’
His blank expression spoke
for what was a non
sequitur
for him. My mother
saw
his doubt and added,
‘Well, do they run?’
The wildness in his eyes
prompted my mum to
further modify to,
‘Can they be washed?’
Which wasn’t quite the point.
But his enthusiastic, ‘Yes!’
was comfort for them both.
My mother’s shame in
innocent unease ensured
she bought the things.
And we
used them until they were
quite thin; because we smiled
whenever they were washed.
Today, near me, a table set
about with eight old men,
creates a rolling wave of
simultaneous talk with
scattered, shouted, wordy-spray.
I catch a name, a team, a phrase.
But understanding’s not complete.
My decades count for nothing,
and I am now the gawky youth
struggling to understand.
