Fire, air, earth, water

Just like you to find the sweet spot –

the warmest place is the windowsill.

You lie in the sun, stretch and kill.

You are never troubled by regret.

You are almost divine: there and not there.

You track my steps in a zig-zag ritual

and charm me for your next meal.
Like a spell, you melt into the air.

You live in the present. You do not fret

about what might happen tomorrow.

You follow me around like a shadow.
I should be happy but I am not.
You occupy a circle of now

as you flex and curl. I envy you.

The wind tickles the damselfly –

with one bright flick it is gone.

It paints the sky with imagery

we are what we have done.

The wind rattles the ash trees.

It troubles water. It strips the leaves.

The wind erases your stories.

It takes them away, one by one.

Gently the wind touches your hair.

Now that your time is over

it is returning your life to air.

It’s a shame that we cannot recover

what we have thought, what we have seen.

To restore memory, touch card to screen.

Each day I walk past a cemetery

a neat white sign over a log cabin

R. Gray and Son Monumental Mason –

stacked stones waiting for judgment day. 

While I sit in the shelter at the bus stop

my feet are washed by cemetery run-off

and, as if this wasn’t bad enough
they have eviscerated the chip shop.
They have spilled its guts across the pavement –
old brown carpets and chewed-up clay

in a lonely spot at the edge of town

without ritual or sacrament.
I had to stand there today

slowly, the elements are breaking down.

You could tempt me to go too far

with your promise of adventure.

Your mood could change in heartbeat

you could harm me – you have done before.

There is always a journey

a line that grows on the horizon

the tug of the moon on the tide

an island to plant my flag on.

You are pulling me like a memory.

You could charm me, you always do

onto some miniature Odyssey

from Ithaca, in my canoe.

The lure of your Sirens’ song

a journey from which I may not return.