60
Now at certain
ages we take stock, see reflections
of counsel
given, those stained shorts all patches wet
that wasn’t
so before, feel her grip about your throat
as sixty
years pass by on the other side of the road;
one or two
of them actually good enough to pause
like some
kind of Samaritan and, all things considered,
can you even
remember which seeds fell and where?
It is not
improbable, that in his flight from Herodias,
a few
drifted, perhaps carried by the beaks of birds,
tangled up
in swan’s feathers and I have often heard
he got into
a boat, sat down at some time, and spoke.
I can’t say
what his treaty was, because no one listened,
least of all
me, busy pulling thistles from stony paths,
but I got
the gist, rose and found the world was broke.
There may
have been tears that caught suns, glistened
as they fell
amongst weeds. But he set sail at sixteen,
that much is
known, turned back on some sort of home,
chucked a
fistful of cassettes into a badly packed kitbag,
sagged off
school for a bit, listened in disbelief to news
some headcase
shot him dead, and falling like a stone
paint
crosses on door, mark for death as locusts come.
And why shake
people, awake stories swimming past?
They bring you
unhappy laughter as they’re breezing by
then each
new love is starting over, reminds you to cry,
because some
seed fell by the road; black crows gobbled
and, still
busy grieving, he’s found fathoming seven seas,
they told him
so, for nothing amounts to a hill of beans
which fall
apart when the love you have is only dreams.
People came
to where he was. Mothers mourned in May
as medals won
are worn, pawned to feed hungry mouths,
selling sons
downriver that she might finally get some rest,
and I’m hedging
my recall, never certain of what was best;
sunburnt
seeds fell in shallow soil, as flotillas sailed south,
smelted from
sparkly tinpot metals that melt the mouth
as they
ditch and blaze: ‘rejoice, rejoice in that,’ she says,
but you
listened and listened and you did not understand.
Angels come,
cherish times where candyfloss covers loss
and I saw him
there, winking amongst the gleaming spires
in hope; all
could be well, holding tightly, gripping his hand
until all
were snatched from this land. It’s a hard shoulder
that offers final
rest, we were blessed amongst the moss
and stones, where
you look and look, but you did not see
weeds growing
within cracks amongst the mustard seeds.
Now they are
trees, too late to live there amongst branches
or grapple;
tear apart with bare hands what became strong.
They put us
into the big fire, we made our noise with teeth,
for sixty
years, he shouted, but they did not hear with ears,
did not see
with eyes, so he measured his success in grief
of three
score and another ten till someone fetch a priest.
