June
For MM: August 1958 - May 2015
The morning gone
The morning gone:
I haven’t even swept the steps,
but have been out walking, restless,
conscious of settled dust
and long established cobwebs.
I grasp and dart at gravel comfort,
a low lizard whose frozen rest
is only as long as the shadow.
The morning gone
and nothing is hung out to dry:
clutter not collected,
flies on the seeping fruit
creep in the blue mould bowl
and the warped back door bangs
and bangs in this high pressure,
low cloud, storm cell of a summer.
When this day is gone,
it might be easier to sweep and clean
and fix the door; to be prepared
to concede that dying has a drawer
where it usually lives, that the wind
blows to dry the clothes and that dust
is nothing more and nothing less
than particles of living.