Wendy

 

Wendy

 

I’d have to explain what a typewriter was

to your trees full of monkey

before expecting them to bash out any Shakespeare;

even then, I think it would be hard pressed

to see any reading other than superficial and trite,

like, say, ‘please don’t break the spell tonight’.

 

And once when I was feeling fond:

‘Thou knowest well, when I did shake my wand,

I could bring thee back

where thou wast want to belong

and squeeze a little heartease juice into thine eye.’

 

Overseas, now scanning news from home,

it’s just so Cornwall, somehow does not even appall,

how well I know the sound made when Angels fall

and tumbling - but then, recall, as you must,

how you placed my designated titles in trust,

and said ‘from me to you, oh Angel, go roar

and be warned to never ghost our door.’

 

So, doing as asked and watching from too far,

I’ll hand this to you: you don’t do things by halves

drunk driving while banned in stolen cars,

but I think it’s not the slap on the wrist that’s burning,

perhaps something you lost and you’re yearning

to be complete; she’s sunk her teeth into your rump,

a futile struggling bear too soon chained to a stump,

dancing to a showgirl’s hand-wound tinpot squeeze box,

card punched, pitched stones and chucked rocks,

or maybe you slid into her, it’s harder to know or care

as one more year overleaps another leap year.

 

You didn't have to throw it over like a rag bag full of cats

weighed down with breeze blocks, fighting over what scraps

of air remained, shocked, having them dangling on the edges

for those several cruel months full of pledges,

photographs, memes, messages, before your final Rickroll

trolling, for a laugh, sent out strolling all casual like.

 

You might think it’s easy for me thumbing bass,

slave to rising rhythms, dreaming nightly of a slight return,

to everything right of left, everything churned,

the boy that stood on the deck that burned:

 

Between D minor and major, there only is one note missed,

one pluck, one shift, one finger to this from this,

every week seeking new ways to rhyme,

new lives to kiss, saving new souls, finding time,

old heart pumping blood to old brain that’s flying,

never give up, never give in, keep on trying.

 

So, if you listen hard, you might not hear me calling;

for one sound I do know is the sound of Angels falling.