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There is no dressing this up,
or hiding behind
protective walls of feigned indifference;
our ending is sad.
It is not a transformative stop
where hatches are battened down
with the promise of spring burst,
our leaves will stay away,
for good;
the midst of us going
is final
as
bills
for flowers
on hearse.
Not that we thought our days would last
indefinitely,
we didn't think at all
of the days of not knowing what to do,
without me
and you.
When Summer arrives,
she extinguishes the rainstorm-
the blissful absence of which
not many will mourn.
I wish I was the sunshine of summer
that brings light to everyone's day
as opposed to the rain cloud
that gets in the sun's way.
I grieve for you in the cold quiet of winter
My absent child, my long lost son
Warming my hands over dying flames, frost covered smouldering clinker,
By the wood where icy streams run
Through the shrunken sedge, and barren fields
Stretching for miles, empty of meaning.
The landscape like a worn photograph yields
Your tremulous smile, then nothing.

Here, you ran with startled steps
Through the yielding sheaves, yelling with surprise,
Chasing indifferent spiders, and discomfited birds
With hatred in their pebble pool-dark eyes.
Querying awkwardly spoken words, small
Tenacious fingers that caress and clutch
Every passing object, loudly chuckling, wisely playing me for a fool
A silly father who loved too much.

On the anniversary of your leaving I required solitude
Partnered only by memory
Away from familiar crowds, the booming, barking fusillade
Of the present day commonplace urban itinerary,
Where only the crackle of snow
And the fleeting trajectory of birds
Distracts my slow
Marshalling of comforting thoughts.

The cottage where we lived haunts the shallow glade,
A shrouded ghost swaddled by the half-light,
Positioned squarely like an old man, its cladding beginning to fade,
White branches like dead-fingers that gleam in the night.
In the closet are your dust-sprinkled toys, a yellow plastic duck,
A cheap skateboard, ancient video games,
A guitar you never learnt to pluck
A chess board on which you pulverised my endgames.

In the preserved furnishings of your bedroom
Your school work gathered into stacks
Barely visible in the gloom,
Our life together in disorganised packs
Denoting year and level
Development and academic achievement,
If any, (but I mustn’t once again cavil)
Indicating, even in your earliest years, a specific bent.

Standing on the mantelpiece, propped up against the wall,
Are brightly coloured, polished pictures
Of you. Plump, blonde, agreeably small
Dancing, standing, jumping, grinning, absurdly wistful mixtures.
A bitter echo resonating from the shadows
A cold thought darkening into memory
The spectre of your voice disappearing in the meadows
Having left all of us! Having left me!
My paradise has no mirrors.
So that I can brush my teeth everyday
Without gazing into the face
Of He Who Must Mend His Ways.

My paradise has no mirrors.
So that I can simmer in my lonely blues
Unafraid to lie, not scared if I lose
To He Who Makes No Excuse.

My paradise has no mirrors.
So that I may embrace all my colours in peace
Hidden away from the vision so keen
Of He Who May Never Be.

My paradise has no mirrors
My paradise doesn't instill the need
For betterment. But despite that (or that's precisely why, maybe)
My paradise doesn't have me.
When you texted me back
and said you were in the building,
my heart skipped.

I couldn't tell
if it was from relief that you responded,
or anxiety that you were so near.

I knew that if I saw you
I would either break down,
or become too numb to function.

But if I did not,
my mind would think up awful situations,
and send my panic level to the stars.

I can't help but wonder:
if we weren't so close,
would things be different?

I like to think
that if we were further apart,
I would have gone out to find you.

But instead, I stayed where I was.
Hoping you wouldn't pass by,
while at the same time needing to catch a glimpse.

You didn't text again
Summer poem I found while looking through some notebooks

— The End —