After the ash, the rain, then I
the building had stood patiently
for over a hundred years.
it had survived war and turmoil,
bombs had bounced off it,
life and death had passed through
its doors, continuous.
then we came along
with our own wars
and it remained without allegiance,
not standing in judgement
against you or I.
we couldn’t work that way
and the fights wore us down
until we split in
different directions
and left the building behind.
I have passed there many times
since then and memories seeped into
my mind like the damp through the walls,
though today I find
the house burnt down,
maybe a careless cigarette,
a neglected oven or heater.
all that is left is rubble,
ashes of burnt wood
grey powder spread out like a sheet.
memories come quickly
I dwell on what has gone.
rain starts to fall
making pock marks
in the ash, washing the dust
and the memories away
any sadness subsides like the rain
relief breaks through like a yellow sun.
I turn to walk away, never to return,
gaining greater strength
with every new step I take.
Somewhere in hell
death drops from above
in the east
heavy clumps of fatal rain
here, the birds hum Stockhausen
and the grass dries stick brown
to a dying of its own
ants run madly scattering
in disturbed agitation
as I dig at the roots of the trees
with my rusty fingernails
the cat eyes me suspiciously
and mutters sunshine
as insanely I sweat to create
a 15’ by 10’ Eden
somewhere in hell
Until then
the mailbox is empty
it only chatters
occasionally
with credit card applications
and offers to join a gymnasium
both of which I can ill afford
my computer splutters
when I log on to e-mail
laughing a great gut wrenching
belly laugh as it proclaims
zero new messages
the telephone hardly ever rings
and when it does there is either
no one at the other end
or a tape recorded message from
some foreign country—
I always put it down
nobody calls at my door
apart from the seller of religious tracts
who I don’t want to talk to
or an old lady who really needs
the folks in the next house
and refuses to stay when I ask
its so good to talk and communicate
in the modern age
they say
as for me
I’ll let you know when it happens
until then I will sit quietly
and wait.
Adrian Manning lives and writes in Leicester, England. His poems, articles and reviews have appeared online and in magazines around the world. He is the author of a number of chapbooks, his latest being All This I See Before Me, All This I Cannot Resist published by Propaganda Press in the USA. He is also the editor of Concrete Meat Press. |
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