Scarcely more than shoulder breadth,
you cannot see the opening
from this year’s end.
Two sides obstruct the solstice light:
no shadows dance
or – in its gloomy closing – slink
like alley cat round beer cans.
Walls so tall they seem to lean in.
Ivy overspills their coping,
reaches fingers down.
I approach our lengthening days
between brick piers;
but find each minute, newly lit,
is – by shallow angles – blinded.
There’s more time now, though less to say.
Listening for tongues, we hear only
three-word echoes.
How far this passage goes rests on
choice of measure:
careless whether yards or metres,
lichen clings in fractured mortar.
i. 2020
Highly Commended, Sussex Together Festival Oct.2020
The explanatory sub-title was an addition after taking the poem to workshop. One of the group hadn't picked up the 'yards or metres' clue to my allusion. She had thought the 'three-word echoes' to be "I love you" rather than the "Get Brexit Done" and "Take Back Control" I had in mind.
ReplyDeleteShe described her reading as "wrong". Far from it. One of the many reasons I love poetry is how the writer can never know what perception the reader will bring with them, where they will place your imagery in their own landscape. It's a bargain that brings delight to both parties.