heart of stone

 

heart of stone

 

I should never have climbed those stairs

this dismal room, haven for spiders,

moths, and mice, once rang with music,

song, and lovers’ ecstasies

 

and for one night of wonder,

a mother in labour

 

the walls are the deep maroon

I painted forty years ago

traces of numbers remain,

scratched in the plaster,

of women

(middle-aged and older now)

I rang after midnight

to drink wine, smoke hash,

have sex maybe

 

‘where are they now? do they remember me

with affection or bitterly?

I’ll never know unless I hang loose

at the gates of my cemetery

I meant nobody harm –

no matter what they say’

 

the foul cobweb clutter -

rags and litter spilled over the floor,

and the smell, disgusted me

 

‘does this shite shout out the real me?’

 

lifting the lid of a wood-worm chest, 

I rifle a drawing, in charcoal, 

linked fingers and a new born - 

sketched with love

and a caption,

“our hands our daughter”

(before that love turned sour)

 

the birth was forty years,

and as many lovers, since  

in a warm water pool

in this room, filled that night

with candle light, god,

and Tabula Rasa

 

a memory of holding her

of mother’s happy tears,

of promises made as I cut the cord

and meant to keep, 

‘I will always care for you

support you, be here for you...’

(I forget the rest)

 

I picked out a heart-shaped stone,

etched ‘I L Y’  

a token from a girl-friend

slipped from memory

 

I remember a river,

my teeth on edge by

nail file scratching,

 

I remember the heat in the stone

as she handed it to me

and her full red lips

as we kissed

but her face escapes me

and she has no name

 

it was all so long ago

 

regret at years

chasing granite hearts

washes over me,

 

I’ve given up on love

or did love give up on me?

 

I encourage my reflection

in a pitiless mirror  

‘you will find happiness

this mood shall pass’

 

a dubious blue-veined

parchment-skin

old man face

squints back at me