Early Morning, Forecastle

The house is being painted and the new wardrobes are in
but everybody knows we won't get the money back.

There's wild approval in the ring tones of neighbours
whose dogs will have free reign over the green patch.

Occasional timidity doesn't fix the chimney, we all agree,
especially when you're selling. Which is why the scaffolding

has been wrapped like a double helix of our group DNA…
the need to fix and/or move come as quick

as the cherry blossoms in the park. The builders
have only been here for days, but you've been following them for weeks.

How you carry your hands in your pockets
like a brickie, says the brickie. In these early hours,

your mother and I are indulged in mundane amours
when the two of you, two stories up, peak your heads in the window.

The land recedes like a memory… but a memory of what?
There's the possibility that no invitation to a new life will come,

that we'll continue to watch the dogs raise their legs
on the trees long after the white flowers have fallen,

full and thick as cream. You take your coffee with the others
on the roof, looking out to sea; like us, already longing

to return to a place you’ve never been.

1

 

Copyright 2008 Disclaimer