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.