Friday 17 February 2012

Poem: Driving The Pilings

Driving the pilings into the ground,
The summer collapses like an absence of sound.

Rainmakers gather and grind up their glass,
Dropping their smiles into cauldrons of gas.

Widows rewind their wooden cassettes,
Rebuild the winter with walls and regrets.

A soldier unbuttons his camouflage shirt
And smears his heart with a bucket of dirt.

Shimmerings are doused with a gout of damp smoke;
Along comes the digger with his rusted steel cloak

The old structure rises from its hole in the earth;
Children piss on the hopes of rebirth.

Death reconnoitres, weighed down by a spade.
June ice encumbers the heat of the glade.

A bright mind retreats to a nocturnal cave,
Driving the pilings into the grave.

13 May 2003

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