all flesh is as grass
By Coolhermit
Thu, 03 Dec 2020
- 149 reads
all flesh is as grass
the reclusive author
in his favourite frayed
rust corduroy suit
(patched at the elbow)
dozing in a wicker chair
sighed as a visitor
hulloed at the gate
his admirers – an abiding nuisance -
but constituting his bread and butter,
note-booked every word he uttered
as if he spoke from Mount Parnassus
‘why can’t you leave me in fucking peace!?’
(through gritted teeth) “come on in, how lovely to meet you”
“I’ve read all your oeuvre
where do you get your inspiration?”
‘’all my oeuvre’? idiot tautology!'
he pointed to a bed of lilies
fading in the sun baked ground,
“they're desperate for water
the tap’s outside the door…
the watering can’s there...
somewhere… would you mind?”
“I’d be delighted”
“so very kind”
he stared hard at encroaching briars
‘I used to think I could tame nature
now I sit and watch it thrive’
the visitor fetched the brimful can -
the weight of water too much for the writer
“I wonder where my strength has gone -
don’t write that down”
“I could come round some days,
do a spot of weeding”
“there are no weeds here
just plants I never intended -
write that down”
“are you planning another best seller?”
“when I’ve something to say
that has not been said better”
he shook his head as the notebook opened
and pointed to a sprig of rosemary,
“this has been dying,
and returning since
day three of Creation”
“I thought you were an atheist?”
“no man believes until he can’t help it”
“can I quote you on that?”
the old man shook his head
in resignation and despair,
pottered to his chair
blotted the sun with a parasol
and closed his eyes
“don’t slam the gate as you leave”
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