THE CHIME of OVERLAID MEMORIES

A gaggle of poems this week.

THERE ARE NO FULL STOPS.

The big top is burning down.

Nearby we are erecting another tent

that will flame in its turn.

we all want to see the circus,

to somehow be part of the bacchanal

(secretly we fear the clowns).

Look! The clowns are marching.

Purposeful, oblivious of the smoke,

they blow crazy themes

on cracked circus instruments.

The tarnished saxophone breathes a solo

that cannot be resolved.

The parade passes us by.

The proud clowns discordant.

we want to walk in the procession,

to weave through a field

where tents outnumber the stars.

October 1997

3.         Haiku for winter sun

           

Now sun splashed red brick

The branches and birds casting

Flickering shadows

The magpies own the quad.

On the odd hot day, we may have use of it,

then they watch, half amused by our white flesh.

They will still be here when rain-lashed in winter,

we run for the shelter of concrete cloister

These last two are taken from a sequence I am writing about my old university and my recent interaction with the place. I am attempting to chart the differences thirty odd years have made.

Here is another one:

the first real day of spring

I shed my thick green coat

make small talk in the coffee queue

curse my forgotten travel cup

realise I am engaged with the now

rather than the chime of overlaid memories

perhaps I belong here

Have a good week.