|
Callers
When he comes
hot-footing up the drive
in those army boots that go so well
with his camouflage jacket,
will there be a polite rap
or a heavy thump on the door?
Or will he just breeze in?
Or perhaps, that day,
it'll be the raven-haired
and sparkly eyed
Contessa de Mort
who whisks you off
into the night where,
at some glittering reception,
she'll hang lovingly on your arm
and gaze deep into your troubled eyes.
Or neither of them.
Maybe it's more like
diving down to a girl
shrieking to be saved
from storm-crushed rocks,
or an eager boy beckoning
from the end of a sandy lane.
Or an elderly man in a stained
yellow waistcoat who murmurs
'Well, that's that then,'
as his wife snaps her spectacles
back into their case and her
cracked lips whisper
'It's time to go.'
Or none of them. No more
than standing looking out to sea
on a headland that crumbles,
one foot on land
one foot in air
and you're not there.
This poem is part of the "Natural Causes" collection of poems with illustrations by Geoff MacEwan.
For more information, go to Poems and Etchings - Natural Causes.
|
