Persephone

 

Persephone

 

 

He leans forward, and we’re in a cabal,

pulls his mouth down with a ‘listen, pal’

and ‘I want to tell you a story’, I’m thinking

Max Bygraves has become a proper stinging.

I’m staring at his rubbery fingered flesh

as he pulls on a Stella, takes a breath

and we’re the only ones stooled at the bar.

He’s agitated. ‘Have you come far?’

I’m asking, but he blanks this gambit,

because it’s obvious - we’re both in transit,

sitting in the lounge, lost between places,

moving on, kicking over our traces,

or some such - he pulls at my sleeve

with words like - ‘you wouldn’t Adam and Eve,’

and ‘let me show how I met Persephone.’

I’m sceptical. We’re in that liminal space -

‘Watching the English’ by what’s her face,

much the same age, weather beaten,

any words that pass will be fleeting,

of little consequence, so where’s the harm?

He orders; the third pint’s the charm,

but he’s rabbiting; I only recall snatches:

a child of harvests, the moon watches

her struggling with that looking glass

of the phone, dialling up woeful diagnosis,

of the worst kind of self inflicted neurosis,

and how hard it is to get through a day.

Her indulgent parents scowl, hope, pray,

here’s Demeter, with some other bugger,

an aged, kaftan toting, Glastonbury tree-hugger,

who owns a CD of Thunberg’s greatest hits,

and has indulged his child quite a bit,

but, the time comes when time’s enough,

dropped hints that she packs her stuff

and heads off over fences to pastures new.

She reaches for that narcissus that grew

beneath her fleet of foot, the ground splits,

free, free, free at last – but just for a bit.

Now, we’re both teachers, did I mention it?

I push across our fourth, he takes a sip -

all contemplative like – considers his words,

says how long before she arrived he heard

her noise and clutter, a Lieutenant Cockatoo

outside his office, but what can you do?

Claims she’s come to teach – the very latest

in a long line of innovation, and very bravest

for coming all this way across the world.

He’s smiling, nodding, looking at the girl

thinking - what do they churn out of college

nowadays – is it what passes for knowledge?

Here’s a kid to front a class of goats,

and, sure enough, there’s her sick note,

the first of many to claim ill-defined disease

and I’ll take another sick day, please.

So, he passes her a pomegranate’s six seeds

along with a letter about failed probations,

hie thee home to your parent nation,

hail and farewell, don’t let my door smack

your face as you leave, baby, don’t look back.

And that’s that, it seems, well until today

when in Costa he saw his Persephone –

disembarked from his plane, grabbed his case,

and never thought he’d see that face

again in his wildest dreams. But there she was,

an aged Demeter in reluctant attendance,

fussing over bags and her young dependent.

So my mate bolted down his coffee, left quick,

with the viscous rippling of an oil slick.