the dreams come back with the apples red and
bitter from being held in Summerís branches, your breath smells of brandy
and old cigarettes, there are holes in the knees of your jeans, the first
of a series of animal carcasses turns cold like the rusting spokes of a
funfair ride, you are always packing, forgetting, being chased, falling.
Caught in a strangerís house with your trousers round your ankles.
the clocks go back an hour, so you are left
with the illusion of more time, the trees turn into watercolours, the birds
begin to hide or migrate, you try to warm yourself with black coffee, frying
mushrooms with bacon on a Sunday, you watch the cartoons in the morning
and feel guiltless as a bishop counting sheep.
the hair on your face grows quicker, there
is more white, but no softness yet, no old manís fern to keep death away,
a wildness is re-introduced, the wolfpacks hunt for rats in your face,
the wrinkles deeper, the dark lines more persistent, slower to wake up
as to fall asleep.
you believe in fairytales like you believe
that Christmas will come soon, caramelised light, shed petals, ornaments
turning with the snowflakes, there once was a man who lived by the
river, he was old and foolish and all of a-quiver, how winter begins, how
the hours ascend like music.
© Garry Stork, 2001