Putting the window back in place
Month after month our view is boarded up,
a grotto; we persist in shadows
lit by just electric glare.
Know that outside, unreported
a garden full of fallen leaves is there.
Beside his heavy gloves, my friend lays out
the chosen tools: chisel, spud wrench
pliers, plum bob, spirit level
headtorch, hammers (both lump and claw).
And more. Daring me to say what’s missing.
We plan our movements, where to plant our feet.
How we’ll take the weight, sidestep torque
on hinges. Then minding corners feel
for the flush of an easy close.
Fix a quadrant stay to set the opening.
Watch daylight flood the room at last.
ii. 2026
The Judas Tree
Tucked between my opened pages,
a redbud leaf. Crisp as a poppadom, disc-flat
like an ancient map of the earth.
What park or garden it came from
I could not tell; nor whether it was plucked or fell.
All that is unremembered now.
Held in the gaze of my mind’s eye
gently spreading boughs, like undrawn sidearms, weep
pink blooms direct from dark gouged bark.
Its need for water slight, new life
springs from old wood, sap rising unseen year on year
making most of drought resistance.
When treachery stalks the streets
remorseless, this canopy is bold, defiant.
Shelter where all may hang their love.
i. 2026
Returning from the Day of the Dead
So here you are, landed,
brimful of holiday.
Yet buried still – dead weight
among the souvenirs –
lurks a primal fear, hand-painted,
of one day being left alone.
It is a drag anchor,
has held you back too long.
Be well, I say. Be well.
Albeit fierce in its embrace
let anguish slip away.
Life’s a descent on scree, mostly.
Planting both feet sideways,
one hand clutches at stony ground
the other skyward flails
reaching for direction.
The headlong balance of braking
and velocity.
Only know
those empty places, with you in them,
shall always bloom.
Be well. Be well. Be well.
xi. 2025
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