Friday 15 November 2019

Good Friday


Good Friday




He sometimes writes good, Fridays.

Of a Friday, some faraway Friday

using a half-remembered typewriter

of bedroom red-blue sticky ribboned

clatter-clack snapdragon tangle key

fingers misfiring muddy memories:

green hills, cliffs, rains that quench,

rains that drench, rains of new brent

classrooms, sweet in boiled cabbage

splinter-wood floors, puddles that soak

semolina blood-rose hip syrupy teachers

playing one fingered piano tunes,

while sitting children stir and stir

with spoons the Sheffield stainless steel

red pools into white to conjure cream,

whirlpooling wonder into dream

words onto Basildon Bond paper.

Potent the magic sugar kaylie spell

fizzes on the tongue when young

taught, rote wrote words of caterpillar

flies, every gold buttercup butterflies

from every chrysalis a key change

major major minor, dot, dot, dash

and Jesus, some say, came back.




https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YdFmsURncFg






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