That’s the End of That.

Summer strides off the way she came

A train pulling out of the station.

The six alacritous weeks 

that watercolour-bled from one to the next 

Are phrased off neatly,  punctuated into nothing-

The tree only falls if it thumps. 


I’ve snowglobed my time,

Traced over the scribbled edges in marker pen 

To make an opaque period

Of open-gate days and unscaffolded nights 

A tale I can get my mouth around 

Both storyteller and shuffling child-


I sit myself down and tell myself

Of setting light caught in green bottles

Transfigured into lush jungle emeralds 

And vague embarrasments

That become comic relief, light as air

Uncertainties bubbling in the pit of me

Are rubber victims- faint white dents on the page,

Words half-said


Each balmy evening is enbalmed,

Dog days dropped dead

 Just in time for a snowdrop-garland grave.

It is a comfort that I can position the corpse just so-

I mutter six feet under my breath

narrating to myself only the story I want to hear.

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