(or What I Did On My Holidays)

A poem about Sunday afternoon, or Wednesday evening before bed. Some time like that.

There’s nothing to do, so I walk, because at least there’s peace in movement.
A silent street is dead tired, dead weight. Dead wrong.

Every house seems a prison, holds a jail term of civilising expectation.
A wet May might darken my coat but each step eats at the conspiracy of silence.

Be done with your rainy day distractions, rushing to tomorrow in your cars,
I’ve found today, in the street, this afternoon. Life loves now.

There’s no signpost to the empty church, the well stocked graveyard.
Green mould respects only its own progress; it swells whitewash to explosive pregnancy.

God and I parted company with a Buddhist; a good man.
The church space now is a vacuum; rats don’t dream.

I walk on the heads of the dead and consider their past victories.
When I end bury me somewhere loud but don’t let me die before then.

Back home I wrote you this letter, to say I’ve a cup for each and every friend.
Let’s turn gravestones to tables, make new names for days. Begin again.

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