NOW AND THEN
for Glen Jeffery
The door is shut, the drawbridge up
and the world told to wait at the outer
gate. You grab a bottle from the fridge
and chill, an act of will. Soon you will
drizzle oil over anchovies, grate
parmesan onto fresh pasta.
You eat on the sofa. As the wine kicks in,
you float and zap, eyes fixed on the screen.
You’re not not exactly in control. Remote.
Know what I mean?
Long Loughborough Junction evenings
of Ramrod and Special at The Wickwood.
Friday night meetings around wooden
tables drinking dark Winter Warmer.
That matchless sensation. The rounds
and the crisps. The long walk back
from bar to chair, eyes on the beer
you try not to spill. The present you do
not give a thought to is a past you will
remember. The word: together.
c.f. IBERIAN CHIFFCHAFF
The metronomic ding dong song of Phylloscopus collybita
– lacking somewhat in definition – might just put a
body’s head away on a day after a night
of oaky Rioja or Asturian cider. The bird goes on a bit.
The call is an upwardly inflected hooeet.
Weep notes are of diagnostic value in the song
of Colly’s Iberian cousin. But Ibericus knows the
value of restraint, being less likely to elicit complaint
from those of a circumstantially nervous condition,
its plaintive peeoo suggestive of an empathetic disposition.