AFTER THE CLOCKS GO BACK
I make sense of the rubbish
quite at home at the end of my garden
screened off with all the functionality
of a French pissoir.
The incinerator proud with rust
wheezes in its own smoke,
leaves have come to terms with their maker.
Though the air festers in imminent rain
indoors traps me -
now the shed hunches with its good nature,
comfortable in the dampness of Autumn.
The mouldering compost heap under warm long discarded carpeting
whispers of conversion.
A laurel bush nearby seems offended,
a ladylike presence spurned,
I put a strap to it for support last year,
what more could I do?
This corner is for guilt and redemption,
like a sort of crematorium in the fullness of sad time.
No regrets though as the spirals take to the air
surrendering,
wood converts to carbon
settling back with a black grin.
It cheers me up, as once more I learn
the benefits of patience after the clocks go back.
raypool
Sat 14th Nov 2020 12:33
Many thanks for liking this Stephen and Stephen.
Well i'm so glad you liked this Graham. To be honest, I wrote it in situ as it were on my phone notebook, then edited it quite a lot. It's a bit like reducing a sauce or stirring something until you're happy! Initially I though aye aye another Autumn poem, but I was pleased with it too!
Thanks Paul; you have to try to make the best of nature's spoils, even if it's grotty - there's happiness everywhere . It's a primeval thing is fire...
Ray