Unadopted Affinities

Unadopted Affinities

Twelve deaf children did not arrive at dawn 

With pick-axe handles to pound the stout old door

Until the welkin rang and good old friends 

Did not bring schnapps and old accordions.   

No street urchins called out as they passed by,

“The Latimers are off to Filton Squinney!”

The day the Latimers moved in,

One of someone’s special casseroles

Wasn’t waiting for them on the porch

In Gammy Belchard's periwinkle dish

With a request attached to return it Friday night –

 “Some neighbors will be dropping by for drinks.”

Filton Squinney didn’t bid them welcome.

From the morning chorus of obscenities 

To the nightly fusillade of human faeces 

Their life was a running sluther of abuse.

But Latimer was stalwart – even when

The neighbours ate his wife and children.

One night when the air is full of falling stars 

And all the world except the Latimers 

Lies buried in the fields of Filton Squinney,

A shining lamb will come to Latimer 

As he sits weeping in his garden shed

And bring him tidings much too deep for tears:

“I am Thredgar, Lamb of Lavender.

Death will never come to this gazebo –

Or pavilion, call it what you will.

The world that never used to be your friend 

Is now your oyster – but not your Shangri-la.

So I have come to be your missing pearl.”

The Account

The Account

There are many ways to achieve greatness, said Brodie,

Acknowledging the applause like a man holding up traffic –

This is one that worked for me.

And I watched him strip the girls in the front row

To their undies, figuratively speaking, as they leaned forward

To catch every nuance of his slithering tongue.

You might think I despise Brodie, or even pity him,

But you must remember that I’ve been there, done that,

And had a wife, a dog and a hearth

To show that men can change.

I’ve been lucky. Death always followed me

At a respectful distance, like an accomplished spy,

And my secrets have never been desperate enough

To die for. But Brodie reminds me of how it ends,

How it always ends when you live like a lunatic.

Nobody feels confident enough to mourn

And only comedians remember you.

The Great Receptionist looks up from his desk

And asks the usual questions. His understanding smile

Says he’s not afraid of parables.

I tell him about the things I hoped to achieve

And he gazes at me through the sky, patiently

Waiting to hear how it always ends.  He checks the form

And says: Occupation? He’s pleased to note

I have no regrets. And then he picks up his quill

And writes: Vagabond.

Old Sarum

Generosity, unchallenged fortitude

And a wealth of unrecorded history;

Flowers and birds and men with pointed hats;

Pretty girls with grave accordions

To accompany their songs of golden lads

Who will forever break their mothers’ hearts

And write the sweetest elegies known to man 

And die alone in droves for love of women 

Who died alone two thousand years ago.

Always late August, always half past five,

Dust and insects in a stagnant haze

Over the long grass where the bodies lie 

Unburied in a dream of perfect joy. 

We’re locked in honey here; we’ll never reach 

The bottom of the jar. When Jesus died 

It’s almost true to say the world rejoiced.

I was enchanted by your disbelief;

I want you fresh from hell and raw with grief.