Some older tosh.

I’ve spent two hours and twenty five frigid minutes
counting the clouds in the frost-bitten limits
of our garden. December has brought icy saints
of Christian name through the gate, flakes of paint
dancing in a momentary blizzard over my head
to settle on the crisp remnants of Father’s dead

gardening efforts, the whole of summer wasted,
replanting and reseeding whilst Mother tasted
June culinary creations that we scoffed and never
thanked her for. Today I tolerate the weather,
though my nose is sore and I’m sure his train
has been delayed... The gate swings and I regain

my - bearded - brother, home from his poky room,
(without results) in childish fear of Mother’s doom
reigning down like spiky ice flakes. He has brought
back his washing and roused me from my thoughts
to help wrap knock-off cologne and a carving knife
and then return to our bench to talk of stuff like life:

why I’d spent money “on such an impractical coat” -
Mum and Dad still echoing in his voice, a quote
inherited from them. Still, my brother, who understands
why I’m curled up in the cold and can withstand
the Winter unlike many others, Snowmen our friends
during the Christmas holidays, with absolutely no end

to the argument of who got to put the carrot nose
into the fast melting face. He criticizes my clothes,
has a problem with the age and height of the boy I like,
tells me about his new plans to buy a motorbike,
admires my music taste. I probe him about sex, beer,
pasta and sleep, his replies well away from the ears

of an even more probing Mother. We soon go
inside to our festively decked home, even though
neither of us has noticed the cold. I’m pleased,
that he still demands an advent calendar and is teased
by Mum and Dad, who try not to smile at the beguiled
face, and home, that has recovered it’s missing child.

: 17 Feb 2010 18:00 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (2) |  Report a problem