Tuesday, June 25, 2019

Political Idealism


The silver sea is reflecting pink again
coldly washed in the winter's fading light.
Reminiscence? A gesture of contrition?
I don't know what.
Like a rose on a silver plate, afterwards.
An old ruse, tried once too often.

How many times? How many times?

You said it would be different.
You said it was time for a new start.
Your smile could melt wax, it's so warm.

In summer your plans were big; dreams even bigger.
Then came the harness,
then the plough.
And it was heavy.
Heavier than you imagined
possible.

And the Earth turned
as it always does
and the rains came
as they always do.

But you fixed it.
Sort of.
We didn't wash away, anyway.
You said encouragingly.

In the wan sunlight
you had new plans.
Bigger.
Brighter.
You'll see.

I just washed the pots
and scrubbed the spuds.
The dead roses reflected
pink in the dishwater.
And I waited.

And the worm turned
as it always does
and the rains came
as they always do.

And now it was my fault.
I never, or I always,
I forget which.
All you'd needed was
something you'd never had
and I didn't give you.

So you were cold
and you were cruel
punishing me
for your stillborn dreams.

And the moon,
cold and cracked
voyaged on alone
into the raging night
Even staring rudely
curtains undrawn
without even the
manners to hide its
face from the day.

And the season turned
as it always does
and the flowers came
as they always do.

How many times? How many times?

Your smile surprised me
like a sunny day in Spring
Like a wet dog with a ball
So we went out in the brightness
and we laughed and sang
and did silly things
and I melted like wax.

Again.