JIGSAW DAYS

I  do not want to write much about this post's poem, discretion is the best policy.

Poem for C

Given the economies

of supermarket squash

and the cheapest of vodkas,

it had always been

how much could he drink,

in the shortest amount of time,

to keep ahead of blacking out,

to avoid the grey dawns

when monochromatic

migraine imitating aftermaths

immobilised him in a space

where he could do nothing

but relive it all over again.

I met him in the fragile truce of sobriety

that he called his jigsaw days,

as he placed his pieces

into shapes that just might work,

into patterns that had eluded him on the drink.

Some events, he confided, never end,

so you have to find different ways of getting on with it.

I've been listening to a lot of Kathrine Williams this past week so here is Cuckoo.

And this is In a Broken Dream.

Until next time.