To keep a routine, that's the thing,
that's what keeps it at bay. But
is that not just playing a game -
the shaving, the brushing, the toenail-
trimming every four weeks?
I think depression is no more
than the sudden dropping of pretence.
You keep up your image, because
that is what works, and then when
you should be at your happiest, it comes
like meteors come - not with the cold
efficiency of a mechanical bird,
but like the damning hellfire
of a heavenly body curved off-path.
Say you are going for a walk,
and it is Spring, and say your
love-of-the-moment is a short
distance away, as silent as peace
because she knows how you can get.
Say it is the first bright day,
but still chilly - the moon, having
been on a binge all night, holds
a silent tune so blissfully, a
dog whistle in the deep blue, and say
the fields are endless sheathes,
the crosshatch reeds of farmed corn
forming a mosaic riddle on the ever-
stubborn mud, and there are ghostly
rainbows in the hidden puddles,
and it is joyful unlike anything,
and there's the feeling of being lost
as a child is, comfortably lost, unphased
and focused only on the patch of
ground in front - the only patch
that is, not a patch on what's behind.
And say you feel a smile arrive
and you feel too clean, if anything,
too new and looked after, like a baby,
and just as quick you think: this is not the idea,
this is not my retirement, how dare I pretend
I deserve a moonlit walk in the middle
of the day, how dare I play this game?
What next? Will I drink the sun?

I’m thinking of guilt, of karma,

of cause and effect, of sky,

of midday sun

(a red judge)

of midday moon

(of its telekinesis,

its drowning game of

tennis with the tide).

They say you’re mobile now,
but like a cartoon, the
ghost of your outline suspends
behind you on the road.

How long it hangs before it is the
same stuff as breath on a cold day,
only God knows; and He
cannot be found for looking.

You have read every rule the
great poets and philosophers
have etched. Your technical
grasp of love is paramount.

But to the quiet tremble
of the skin, to the warm and
unfearing heart, you are the
sweetest of novices. Go, drive away

and read no more of love.
You have studied enough.
Go drive away until you
remember why you ever

coughed the ignition into life
in the first place. And take
it as a sign that the reverse
gear refuses to play along.

There is a gutsy finality to
the way you add curls of cream to the cup;
a knowing glint in the chintzy sheesha,
second-hand, jewelled, meditating on the
window-seat behind you. Beds of children
form foamy chains against the azure blankets

out there, above your head. Your glasses are
windowpanes, screens to a lighter view. Curled
in your belly is a shaman with the
bold dimensions of a project. You stir.

What are the lessons of today?
Are they informed by vague
hungry phantoms, jaw-slacked, who burr
on the tongue, that singular
nothingness before an itch
shows? The truths which form beneath
your skin are those which would
find more knowledge in some other
knowing mouth, ready for
digestion. Have you travelled
far today, pilgrim? Have your
feet insisted anything
of worth upon the forest floor,
or drawn up the simple
truths already buried there?
Did you subject yourself to rain
for miles of wandering
only to come out again
as the clouds hurried to
hide their shame behind the
hills? Have you been
troubled by the whims of
the broken twig, the taxation
of the wind's shanty breath?
Take off your blindfold and watch
as I give you a wave
from a shadow you nearly
tripped over. Give over your heart
to me and my land.
What have you learnt today, pilgrim?

Having died, you have grown
inside my heart for years.
It happened when I did
not care what happened -
in my subbacultcha
adolescence. I was
numb and you numbed
me further. You were not
much like a father anyway,
but I was shocked to
never mourn you.

I know now that it has been
a gradual mourning. I blindly
rampaged into my twenties
before even thinking of you.
And when I did, I did and
I did and I did and you were
there, suddenly, nightly.
It is worse this way,
in many ways – my griefs
are stupid, impossible
questions like: 'Why
Daddy can't you have known
me as a grown man?' I am
so much the son of yours
now. No longer a boy.

Having died, you have
grown – oh nevermind.

The ***** peers
its paw-print face
and knows the heart
of patience.