Boots by the Door

He said he could feel darkness
and smell the colour of her hair.
It once smelt of wild strawberries, but now
the air never smelt so foul.
Each little bit of love he gave
she took, and buried in a shallow grave.

A man no more.
His headstone - boots by the door.

Over the flock he soars
to the place where his mind only knows.
Hands torn by earth, his core eroded,
and it’s the journey that makes the sew quicken.
Each time blinking bits of my soul
off into the distance.
One day a wish,
that dream to be far away,
Free to soar.

Take off the shackles
Jump through the window of opportunity
And you’ll see
That a man is born.

A woman scorns
Boots by the door.

The verandah

I’ve found a place where I can see
The closest thing we have to eternity.
I’ve found some space where curiosity
Can run free under the safety
Of a corrugated umbrella.
Beyond the river,
Past the trees,
A voice of an innocent calls out to me.
Throaty and hoarse she whispers faintly,
“cause-and-effect, cause-and-effect”.
On the verandah the world looks framed,
Confined
Displaced
Controlled
Tamed.
When in actual fact it has no name.
It can’t be spit polished
Or stay the same for too long,
Because things change over time,
Or become drained of everything
Good in them.

First published in Rabelais.

Empty

When the shadow hits the floor
I’m blinking.
Thinking of what’s in store
On the television.
It seems easier over there
Receiving everyone’s stares.
The mailbag is empty
And the lock has gone and broke.
When my cheque comes rolling in
I’m drinking.
Linking up with old habits
With wicked eyes.
It looks prettier inside the box,
Bright colours to hide behind.
When the clouds decide to part
Their separate ways,
I’ll get up and see today
Instead of waiting for tomorrow.
It drives better going downhill
Rolling straight into a tree.
The petrol tank is empty.
The man behind the wheel still walks away.
The batteries are empty.
The back has fallen off and disappeared.

First published in Rabelais.