Thursday, 21 June 2012

Into The Night

On my desk, a sleek credit card with a silver hologram
silver numbers and my wife's name. Grey shapes
on jet black. Grey countries. Europe on
an uninterrupted black sea. This card
has no value to anyone, certainly not me.

Next to this bankrupt card, the gold foil
of an eaten Galaxy in the shadow of an Epson printer
and a copy of David Copperfield that fell to the floor,
spine broken, split in half
as a voice floats up from the street
to make me uneasy, the curtains open
my head bathed in electric light
and the sky still light this longest day.

And there's a toppling tower of papers
a note book in which I wrote
she was the prettiest girl in the bar,
the only girl in the bar. Whoever
she was I can't remember now
and it's been years since I've been
anywhere near a bar.

I go outside. There's a mess
of flowers and stalks like in
a painting of Ophelia floating in the river.
The sky's fast losing its light.
Chimneys make black silhouettes
and there are no lights on.

The water continues as water does
and a shadow walks on the pavement
smoking a pipe – an anachronism
as the street suddenly comes to life
with the sound of wet wheeled cars
the clicking of stilettos.


  1. Jonathan, this remarkable piece relieved a difficult time here by taking the imagination on one of those blest tours of memory and feeling and (somewhat rueful now it must be admitted) cultural apprehension which one nostalgically associates with -- yes! -- poetry.

  2. Thanks Tom. Writing it relieved a difficult time too. Really grateful for your comments.



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