Unspoken

 You say, ‘It’s over.’
And I think you might be talking to the fire
As it sighs and curls, and falls asleep,
In the cradle of charcoal and tender ashes
And I try hard not to notice  
How roughly you kick your boot
Through the soggy, amber leaves
And the clagging mustard of rot
And the flat, leather mushrooms
And the beaded cobwebs
And the forgotten acorns
And the ring of pale feathers
And the cruelty of moonlight
And the meaningless sorrow of tiny bones
And the relentless smell of mildew
And the misery of all the crawling things
And all the sticks and all the stones…
 
And in the car park
You drive away too quickly
And don’t wait for me 
Or the unexpected fox
Caught too long in the headlights.

13 thoughts on “Unspoken

  1. Too busy texting
    Too fast driving
    Too much not paying attention
    To Anything
    And Mamma Duck’s neck is
    Broken
    It takes two days for Dad and Ducklings to
    Absorb
    And I wrap her in plastic like some
    Man made
    Disposable by too busy to notice

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Poetry in the loosest possible sense. I’ve often considered PostModernism as a career choice but without constraint the voices in my head would clamor and run amok like a herd of four-year olds in a stone kitchen full of cooking pots and wooden spoons. Which I’m sure is why the great poets and musicians and visualists followed made up rules and norms for composition or madness would have ruled the day much sooner. The best creative camouflage is the one that keeps the straight jackets at bay.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Nietzsche wrote, ‘Whoever has built a new heaven, has found the strength for it only in his own hell.’
    I like to think he’d have added a hug 🤗 emoji had he been kicking around today.

    Liked by 1 person

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