Thursday, February 16, 2017

James Walton #36 The Fencer and the Sunset: Eight Bars for Broken Strings

The ripped wire is back up uncurled recycled
 twice the effort for half the result
(I hear the scent of you smiling in the fragrant drapery of the orange tree),
but happy doing the right thing
witnessed by how much the disinfectant stings my hands

All those cuts for a little comfort and of course pleasure
in some resurrection of boundary and grass and greedy eating to come
and my own thoughts meandering pulling wire,
moments elliptic in steps and crouching straining to get the line
where diluted end of Autumn sun naps in the company of old dancers

There’s no desecration Sandi your ashes are still here
spread smudged and taken up by so much other life
a blue tongue’s watching almost heedless but still wary,
in its somnolent crocodile wobble of possession to let me know
where the return will be

Out over the decline to a different eco system
in front of what’s left of the hay shed
splattered hills are garnished like a blanket thrown over something,
that should have been picked up first
by an impressionist God impatient in passing

Flung sheets of tin once wall hedge up against the slope
I come on with too much purpose to see
the eagle shakes loose first like a patient escaping a straightjacket,
then wings stretch awkwardly as air unhelpfully holds out the coat
dressed now time bends in clumsy first strokes to lift off

In a Chinese master’s moves of an order too ancient to be named
saplings become bamboo walking steps to the air as one to another
private whispers invoke the parting envelop of change,
sudden majesty takes over and the sky is slipping through gears
without the hesitation of physics

Predicted afternoon showers dawdle
eyelash rains drizzle failure river crays go salty waiting
last rites sing to bend rye,
in the ceaseless head space of dung beetles
going over all that was to be again

Laying down in the soft cashmere pullover of clover
drowsy between the shoulder and breast
of all the day’s murmuring staccato,
remembering how you flew in laughter diving ahead to pick me up in the turn
of a spinning durst of vermillion flamenco


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