Introduction:
This poem was written as I looked forward to a continued recovery from two years of serious inflammation of the brain.
The illness has destroyed many memories. Images from the past have helped restore a sense of self and well-being.
12.
Draw lullabies of comfort from a patch of
mindless chores, and minor catalogues;
miserable, in pain. Can spread from unconnected
treatment; regimes might mask or cure…
Symptoms helpers think are useful till back-stories click
a patterned lid back on the box. And everyone observes.
13.
Self-generating conflicts fill an opening space and
I’d like noise to disengage from details, mind gaps,
potter round a routine chaos. Management reserves
no rights, not even these, the sorts of thing
my father used to do; no commendation in itself.
Know enough to know you don’t. Families do
different things the same. For some of us,
we write in pen and rarely try a change. Some do…
recipes or ventures. Those who’ve passed
have earned an eye-rhyme for the desolate,
a tip of my non-existent hat. Half-done.
They’re home. Dust has settled. Snow, stuff,
and furniture are moved towards their ends.
It’s Christmas. If they have socks and shoes for sale,
I’ll pay. Mine don’t have holes, you’d like them anyway.
14.
Seed is sown. Rains fall.
Corn’s cut, then crushed…
Dough roughly handled,
Boxed and closed
In dark and scorching chambers.
Often burnt.
Bread is made
That we may eat. By signs
A power has made us
Free.
Adam Clarke-Williams
photos Jane Dunster
For Jane Dunster: please contact me on [email protected] as I lost your postal address a long time ago.
Comment by Julian Izant on 12 April, 2024 at 9:14 am