Page 16 - POTB Issue 11
P. 16

By the Don

                                how long you gonna nurse this
                                   despite my best advice
                                knowing full well
                                   what was lost will not return
                                is further from here
                                   than whoever you’re wishing would chap the door
                                to pass on news more urgent
                                   or that rarest of things
                                a song weaved so tight the very ground
                                   begins to shudder
                                at this point surely you’d pause to consider
                                   then again
                                if I was in the vicinity somewhere
                                   along the road and up the brae early
                                making the rounds
                                   shuffling past the greasy papers
                                the usual chill plus last night’s chips repeating
                                   what you need to do is carry your arms in silence
                                trust your own wounds
                                   believe certain waiting rooms
                                given time will allow the leaves to turn and no doubt
                                   the sweeping can commence
                                                                          surely you’ll recall
                                at a stretch
                                   3 decades back
                                      when tricks of the light
                                                  blinded your eyes
                                   a glancing header
                                too fast and wide
                                   this cold hearth creeping
                                steadily forwards
                                   scratching itself
                                muttering next to one last sinkful
                                of somebody else’s
                                   dirty weekend dishes
                                you meet him there
                                   your jack the lad
                                      your spitting eldest best dressed uncle
                                         the man you promised the world
                                some would say you murdered

                                Mark Edwards

     14                                                     Pushing Out the Boat 11
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