Plum blossoms in snow

 

Like a character from a Murakami story

Mr Nagata looks into the embers of his dying fire

And remembers.

 

Mr Nagata surveys the familiar images

And pulling the sack around his shoulders

Takes another sip of Ballantynes.

 

There is the girl who he tries to forget

Her black hair bobbed

Her white neck polished.

 

Mr Nagata thinks of his daughter

And prays for her safety

For his wife he has no concern.

 

There is a music stand and a dextrous arm

Sawing the bow of an invisible cello

He hums to himself.

 

Mr Nagata listens but hears

Only the sound of the cracking wood

The night sky glistens.

 

Tomorrow they will return

And he will slouch off to the hills

Until they have gone.

 

Mr Nagata meditates on the old Zen proverb

That’s life, seven times down

Eight times up.

 

He has eaten a tin of Pacific Salmon

He has consumed three cans of coca cola

He is on his fourth whisky.

 

By now the plum should be in blossom

Pink bud on white snow

Like the nipples of a teenage girl.

 

Heaving himself into the wooden shed

Leaning at a crazy angle

Mr Nagata thanks his gods.

 

He takes the washing line from round his waist

And like a character from a Murukami story

Hangs himself.

 

Dave Morgan 28 March 2011