A funny sort of day: to hold hands with Irene
On Point Clear beach, a look through weatherboard doors
At old ladies' ruminative knitting,
Crows, the sea wall, and an astounding
Ache. You bad girl,
Why didn't I humiliate you
Instead of letting you in to maul
My bag of threadbare broken tricks. A lapse, eh?
Steve tip-toes over each step and crack, gingerly
Into a muddy tide pool,
Walking a tightrope beside the sea
As the earth's crust crumbles away
False-footing his last turn, and it's all
Remembering dreams of nasty kids, of searing
Chinese burns. My mother's light as driftwood.
I lift her, whimpering
And place her on a double bed
At home in the plenitude
Of penultimate days. I live here
And forget it, the outlying
Chalets peeled blue, and when will a smile not hide an ouch
Or an inflated frog?
No end to it, nor the hurt
I feel you're harbouring in your night fears
Spoken out to all and sundry,
Excited gabble in which you wish your life away.
It's just that you seemed as if I might
Be at least on the right ground
As turning to reassure Irene, she grunts, kicks out at me.
I grip her arm, stroke her knobbly hand, shoulder her off
Look over the water to Brightlingsea at sixes and sevens.
Where's my window?
Am I getting better at this game of patience?
She settles into a steady shuffle and a honk
Of muted satisfaction, motion, my arm's pressure.
Results of passion: more bleating
A turn in the light
Towards darkness and blank dread —
My crocodile shoes, where all
One sole is broken open to the seeping rain.
Thunder and pretentiousness amongst men.
Is that a hair or a pencil stroke
In the margin of the next day?
Sleep on it, night's misadventures, tidal rushings,
Bubbles pop in mud and moorings part company.
I mean to say, I mean
That dream is every dream
The point they're making is unclear
I'm back in the van
Thunder blue, or a scratch, with sea-salt rubbed in it.

Copyright © John Muckle, 2004.