Beanies

I don’t think I wore my beanie at all last winter.

I took it with me all the time on the bus and in the car just in case I needed it when I got out but I never did.

Beanies always remind me of buds

How they sit clamped over your head

Protecting your ears and the soft skin of cheeks

Like buds protect blossoms.

I guess I needed protecting or maybe just the feeling of being protected.

As spring got closer I kept hanging out for a really cold day

Like kids hang out for xmas.

Having a winter without beanies is like having a summer without going for a swim.

You feel cheated.

  • when was a time you felt cheated?

The Sky Goes Goth

the sky

has gone

Goth;

dyed its hair

inky black;

the dark clouds squinch

like too tight jeans

letting

no light

through;

a Greek chorus of crows

caw

from the bare boughs;

thunder

mumbles

like Nick Cave’s intro

to Red Right Hand

You Can’t All Be In It

 
You can’t all be in it, I say.

It’s not like a clown’s car. See how many you can cram in.

It’s a poem.

But they don’t listen.

A simple poem about a change in weather and everybody wants a part:

the tawny frogmouth clacking in the crotch of the peppercorn tree,

the palm fronds all a fluster, the shed door banging like castanets,

the Scrabble tiles flying off the board, all peeved,

the sky itself wearing its overcoat, grey and squally —

it’s rather proud of that;

no, no, no I say,

as I drive off, everyone hanging on for dear life
 

There Must be Some Nice Things I Can Say about You

Let me see.

There must be some nice things

I can say about you.

I get to hang out with my inner hermit again.

Where you been? he asks sullenly.

Busy, I say, busy. But hey! It’s good to see you.

Can we, you know, have a beer together? Bring in a Pizza? Watch ‘The Farmer Wants a Wife?’

Sure, I say, sure.

We hug each other. It’s like old times. There’s a tear in his rheumy eyes.

I got time now.

I go to the old bookshelf. It’s pretty dusty. Don’t get much reading done when you’re out and about.

And I grab one, that big Collected Graham Greene

and we settle into ‘The Quiet American’.

There are some stories you can’t read enough.

You could do with a shower, I say. So could you, says hermit.

We give each other a playful punch. It’s like old times.

I watch his hands, his fingers twitching. He pulls back the curtain, peers outside.

Do you reckon we could ,,,,?.

Why not? I say. It’s the season for it.

We stoke up the fire, sit side by side, writing our shivery little three liners, haiku on wind, frost, ice, hailstones.

Winter, you’re not all bad.

Out on the Moors Again

ilkley-moor-yorkshire-england-uk-1487442596omS

She’s reading the graphic novel Donna had accidentally left from her last visit. It’s Wuthering Heights. She’s unfamiliar with the format but rather relishes the art work that captures the violence and energy of the original.

Outside in the garden she is listening to the wind picking up, whining and whimpering like a dog that’s been shut out in the cold and she’s out on the moors again with Cathy and Heathcliff, her wild grey hair escaping from a loose bun.