Saturday 11 July 2020

Silence and Spillage, a poem

hands with a candle


















A Libation ... A Toast

To
This silence that has settled
Upon him like dust ...

To
This silence that has corroded
The skin of him like rust ...

This silence isn’t praying,
Though the hands mimic
A slow applause, or the paying
Out of rope –
Enough to hang himself –
A trick, a gimmick,
A sawing in half,
A laugh a minute,
A grope in the dark.

Mind the gap.

His voice a slur,
As he draws on a cigarette,
Sips a wine turned sour.
It’s a question begged
Of the lees, the dregs,
Not formed, not spoken yet;
He has his own way of betraying
What is bait in a trap.
This silence isn’t praying;
The hands don’t grasp or flap.

He takes another gulp, another drag.

The smoke from his mouth
Is kissed heavenward, a moue,
A whisper scented half grape, half-truth
That drifts like mist, misheard
Amongst the cavilling and gainsaying
Of the delusions he has peopled.
This silence isn’t praying,
Though the hands are steepled,
Though the hands are a crucible for tears.

This silence isn’t praying;
There’s nothing left worth saying:
The hands cup an empty glass.

Cheers ...


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