Poetic Hours Online Autumn 2008 |
Peter Butler |
Absent without Leave We left the others at the station (the 13.13, I think it was), chose the tidal path, my love and I, skipping and laughing past the rat-infested island, the pub holding a wake, onwards downstream where the barge was moored, tall beaks directing us to a field, where we left our names and mobiles in tall grasses, washed footprints in an unmapped stream which we followed as the sun went down, vowing to return one day as different people, bodies and souls reborn, emotions explored, spirits enriched, futures determined, but then the sun grew wretched, it started to rain, so we listened, possibly our mothers calling, it could have been the train. Dared call me Dreamer! Rising at approaching dawn (I'd verified both date and moon), I chose to mighty Caesar warn, Thrust boldly through the crowd at noon: 'Beware the Ides of March', I cried. He did in front of all impugn I was a Dreamer. So he died. Me! Soothsayer of high repute, My reputation so decried Though never once held in dispute! I hear it was a bloody sight, So which of us was more astute? My wife declares I'm always right. |
Between is neither here nor there where time pauses either side of you where you make no decisions but wait for the beckoning finger of one who hopefully you can trust. Next Door The letterwriting lady claimed our neighbours bowdlerised her prose, left the floorboards whispering at night, let their scorpions cavort among her roses, dandelions quarrel with the bindweed by the pond. We've no complaints. The neighbours monitor our credit ratings, kindly check our locks and loans, handle all our khaki envelopes, the wife providing other, intimate services at a fairly manageable fee. Just recently the letterwriting lady writes no more, but serenades the mushrooms she's found growing by the neighbours' fence, seated sometimes in her front room window, grinning at her younger self. |
