Wednesday, 19 June 2013

A Pit Stop for Firewood

On the way home, winter, dusk, water
clings to leaves; drips disturb the heart.

Old green station wagon’s tailgate
is open; a mouth waiting for the feast.

In a thicket scrounging for fuel, thoughts,
like old twigs, snap under memory’s weight.

The distant groan of cars. Time slips away,
urge to flee held at bay by piling firewood.

Boyhood and primate resonate behind thin
veneer of husband/father/man heading home.

Click of indicator as loaded wagon joins the blur;
the damp, real smell of car’s cargo excites.

Ancient man returns after a successful hunt,
the beast subdued for another diluted evening.

Later there will be a fire, feet on stool, a wine,
perhaps Bach. In the folds of mind, the agitation,
like hidden insects in the wood, crawl out and scuttle across
the attempts to find ease.

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