Dearest Jane…
While you tossed and turned in our old bed.
I read the creaking of the bed frame in the same way miners do the groaning of support timbers
so I climbed out from under the duvet and after surfacing dressed quickly left the house and never returned.
There is no point in getting upset over the past.
You know what I mean?
Paddling in spilt milk
Nostalgia is as welcome as recurring malaria or
the trepanning effect of frequent migraines.
Better to view the past through an inverted kaleidoscope
All them gritty looking coloured bits.
on the horizon so to speak
too far away to fret about
There is no point in reasoning with the tiny light
In the corner of her blue eyes
Or the sharp curve of an angry lip
The messaging like hill beacons can be seen by distressed villagers for miles..
A large piece of satellite about the size of a Mod’s scooter plummeted down from space and killed the writer of these lines
From an Eagle Annual Lover of Space Travel to the victim of NASA Blunt Force Trauma in less than a second
Only the red white and blue target left?
CULPRITS
When I was having an affair with you
I used to hide your beautiful dangerous love letters
outside in a crevice in the garden wall
so my wife wouldn’t find them.
One day when the coast was clear
I went back to retrieve them.
A snail had eaten most of them
All that was left was slimy holes and a few odd words.
No culprits in sight
I guess all “loved up” inside
they slid away satisfied.
,
Malcolm Paul
.