Thu, 01 Dec 2016
by the craft shop:
the coloured corners of picture frames
hang down the wall
Supine, under the quilt of night
glows like a nuclear power station:
with code-protected handles
that veil up
a dirgey insomnia of whirring.
Inside, our heads are bedside trinket boxes -
each memory of him jangles crisply
against the next
like wind chimes in a lonely, wet garden.
His face is sugar-mouse white,
rinded deep down laughter lines.
What have we become to him?
Does he see us as if from a plane,
surging over the land
looking down at us among the silver rivers
that glisten down valleys
Or are we here with him right now?
No, it’s too much
all this. A degree in English Literature
is no help at all.
We leave holding the Doctor’s scrawl
as the sun lifts up
over the hills.
Back at the car,
the coloured picture frames
are catching the early morning light.
They are pointing:
up, up, up.