EVERYTHING CRYING, EVERYTHING SAD

>

At the back door with a cigarette and old climbing frames,

old moss-covered petrol pumps in the head.

The party inside cannot be got at.

>

Night has a way of skinning its animals.

Each memory could be a pair of strong arms

pulling water up from the well.

>

A fire once burned so brightly

each corner of the room was illuminated,

precious kindling fed in.

>

The back room had many mysteries.

In farm sheds, with shafts of splintered light,

hay bales were strongholds for little people.

>

In hallowed fields, horses ran over the heart’s

wonderful sceneries.

Harvest came. Trailers would spill their grain.

>

And the old house is nothing but eggs,

windows shut with a quiet hand.

Wee dead birdies stuck in the air space.

>

Waves have been scattering the stones.

Truthfully, the ocean is a bad dream

waking up against the shore again and again.

    >

What a world.

>

Where did the striped deck chairs go?

The paddling pool? Smoke-grey tractor?

The greenhouse ripe with tomatoes?

>

It all becomes ritual, an offering to the ancients

>

Looking up at Orion’s belt,

the tailless cat brought home in a puffy jacket,

something is perfectly out of reach.

>

At the back door, with the cigarette down there,

moss-covered pumps and a party inside

that cannot be got at.

Poetry by David Linklater

David Linklater is a poet from Balintore, Easter Ross. His poems have appeared in Gutter, Glasgow Review of Books, IS&T and Abridged, amongst others. His pamphlet ‘Black Box’was published with Speculative Books in 2018. He lives and writes in Glasgow. Twitter: @DavidRossLinkla

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