60

 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.