For VJ Day, in memory of Alan Showering who was taken prisoner and was forced to work on the Burma railway, who never held a grudge against his captors and was someone I was exceptionally fond of
sat in amiable warmth
the ticking of the clock,
its brass fixtures a gleam
with the final ray of
autumn sun come to rest.
A fire crackled and popped
in an old stone cottage
where countryside was
a verdant, lush green.
We watched flames rustle
finding pieces of
conversation that years
ahead would be rehashed.
When he laughed, he wheezed
a belly flop of mirthful noise
caught up in the choking
of a chainsmokers cough.
Silver and candlelight
lit a dim room, as evening
brought its dark and gloom.
We explored boundaries
of a tenuous relationship
as hands now roughened
spoke of filligree and gold,
accounts of life still to be
reckoned, he beckoned
with humour in a cold room.
A yard arm at six
as stiffened he rose
poured hefty measures
topped with a sigh,
as another day goes by
and we're familiar strangers
lives entangled by
sheer coincidence
of bonds that would one day
break, threads of finest gold
on a chain where
once the clasp is broken
all those nebulous feelings
of self and belonging
are as fragile as a
whispered goodbye
to a watchmaker
who once shone pebbles
he collected on the beach
Poetry by Elle
Read 679 times
Written on 2015-08-14 at 20:07
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The watchmaker
The watchmaker and Isat in amiable warmth
the ticking of the clock,
its brass fixtures a gleam
with the final ray of
autumn sun come to rest.
A fire crackled and popped
in an old stone cottage
where countryside was
a verdant, lush green.
We watched flames rustle
finding pieces of
conversation that years
ahead would be rehashed.
When he laughed, he wheezed
a belly flop of mirthful noise
caught up in the choking
of a chainsmokers cough.
Silver and candlelight
lit a dim room, as evening
brought its dark and gloom.
We explored boundaries
of a tenuous relationship
as hands now roughened
spoke of filligree and gold,
accounts of life still to be
reckoned, he beckoned
with humour in a cold room.
A yard arm at six
as stiffened he rose
poured hefty measures
topped with a sigh,
as another day goes by
and we're familiar strangers
lives entangled by
sheer coincidence
of bonds that would one day
break, threads of finest gold
on a chain where
once the clasp is broken
all those nebulous feelings
of self and belonging
are as fragile as a
whispered goodbye
to a watchmaker
who once shone pebbles
he collected on the beach
Poetry by Elle
Read 679 times
Written on 2015-08-14 at 20:07
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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Jamsbo Rockda |
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Lawrence Beck |
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one trick pony |
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