What’s the address? an Advent poem.4

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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