Dreary Day

On this dreary day
no-one comes to stay
even the snow has receded
to muddy imprints in the grass.  
I outdo the fire's
gay and gaudy light -
four bulbs burning in the room
brightness within -
no thrawn woman me.

And the cat is stylised on the window-sill, 
eyes busy watching wind, ears
twitching at the fire's flutterings
like birdwings trapped between bricks.  
She peers round, jumps down, mooches and
settles in a spiral 
as the damp wood sings.

I survey the scene
have my misgivings -
the driveway may be clear now
but the road in here
went a long way back,
was no mean feat and incurred
much casualty and bloodletting.

D..E. There were hands held going to Church;
hands in trains; hands on 'phones;
and for a long time hands playing a guitar;
then hands on keyboards, eyes on screens; misplaced hands;
and hands alone pushing back an east-coast gale;
hands with insensitive skin (in spite of Johnsons);
an upside-down man holding a 'phone;
a man who couldn't touch anything
but chemicals in jars (talked formulae in his sleep);
then for a time the healing hands of
some Rasputin, a dreamer in disguise. .D..E..��. And here I am: Medusa
a multi-media product
held together with sticky-backed plastic
some glue and a piece of string
a gerrymandered, derelict thing
secluded
fucked-up
spastic.

				


But I look quite normal on the outside -
blonde, fresh-faced, blue-eyed, not too heavy
but get talking 
and its sink or swim for the opposition, 
the crusade too much to swallow 
for those who like bevvy and pubspeak.  
You can't win in the shallows, not enough depth to fight -
too thinly-souled they don't stay long
too soiled to meet sincerity
they prefer to brag rounds of beer
and who they shagged last night.
Such insouciance.

So the upshot is despite this dreary day
this survivor is:
my eyes' fire
my convoluted wits -
cogs enough
the silence oils.

previous poem