Sunday, August 10, 2014

Neolithic



The holiday was ordered
Somewhere to be alone 
No doubt it’s for the best
The doctor requires it

You do remember him?
Yes, angular, bald, spectacles
An  enormous lime tree
Outside the practice- swaying

In April, he fiddled, scratched
Around the airless, spotless room
He spoke while grasping phrases
Between breaths like a  trout

Coming up for air- you lit up!
Your face fractured in subtle lines
I never noticed before? “He’s right-
“Somewhere to be alone is best”

And was it four leaden weeks?
Later, after fragmented conversations
Brittany was that land, chosen
For some vague ancestral reason?

Or perhaps you just liked its odd
Curved like finger projections
And indentations that distracts
The mind from the plain facts of life

And death- we never mentioned-
Until we drove the grassy road
It was a mistake, no shortcut-
How the willows simply glistened

Not a vehicle for miles and miles
Fields with poppies, cows with bells
Like Mahler’s tragic sixth you said!
Still pretending to be middle classed!

Cultured, respectable until the bitter- end?
How it was after all the sharp bends
The road just petered out- no abrupt
Transition- just a limestone path-

To a patch of ancient stone circles
You counted, rubbing their surfaces
You knew their meaning and purpose
Smiling, silently alone, finally at peace.

Afterwards you visited that doctor
With his awful pills the size of grenades-
You endured the well greased machines
And got through it- somehow, indifferent, free?