Last night, in the middle of the push of heat, I found myself thinking about the Japanese Maple we bought years and years ago to plant in our then garden. I could almost feel that frost settling on this lovely tree. Then, in the Spring, it came into glorious red and gold and green life. This tree carried its own gifts with it which last for ever in the thankful mind.
JAPANESE MAPLE
Japanese Maple, A long way From your own country, Facing the cold blue night, Snow dusting Your lovely shoulders. The Autumn sun Long since forgotten.
The old girl said she has always maintained That it isn’t only the immediate pain Of failed relationships and even gently worse dramas, It was the acquired pain of never seeming to do anything right, That had a terrible, wearying energy To trouble and torment, to hurt and to bite.
So that even when she was at home, door closed and locked behind her, That old fraud, Failure, sneaked in through the letterbox. Not sneakily enough, though, for she could always hear that metal mouth clicking, Mimicking the arrival of an excellent invitation, Even whilst spitting one more disaster into the pockets of her mind Where she found it did what it was meant to do, Snipping chunks off her, only leaving an arm and leg behind, Plus its own spiteful mouth that fed on her disasters and fiascos.
She had plenty of experience, claiming as a serious work attempt, Her lists and paintings, her songs and riffs of guitar As a legitimate and generous employment.
The old girl frowned as she surveyed the wreckage behind her, And the very uncertain structure of the future in front of her. Aware that some prosperous bodies (they know who they are), Would claim her entire existence a train crash of gargantuan proportions, Whilst others, (she knows who they are), would maintain any created creations Tumbles such so-called disasters to Lilliputian dimensions.
‘Well,’ the old girl scowled, irritably surveying it all, Glaring at her life story, hating every word printed in Bold, Or in the margins palely loitering.
Well,’ she said again, then recklessly seized by a fit of giggles, Tore the wretched thing up. At the last minute pulling from her pocket A wisp of yellow chiffon, which, scented with a really weird incense, Blew the whole kit-and-caboodle out of existence. Good riddance.
Last Thursday? That was the very hot day When the wood pigeon laid down on the grass To rest. Wisely turning its head from side to side, Watching for magpies And for crows, Knowing that if they spot him He’ll have to move fast, Unfurling his wings and ready for flight In an instant.
For these killer birds, Given half a chance Will peck him to death. Unpicking his feathery body Until it lay all around him on the baking grass. Dove grey feathers dotted with blood Lying silent in the hot sun. His agony fading in the morning air.
This small bird is careful Not to let that happen to him. Taking off the moment the long dark leaves On the Cherry tree begin to shake. Hiding the unfriendly presence That has already landed With its iron beak and deadly intentions.
So that’s him gone then, Soaring into the sun, His wings almost the colour of rain, Vanishing into the trees in the summery distance.
The old girl lay sleepless in her bed, Eyes staring through the dark, Fretting at a future she couldn’t see, Worrying at the hours and days and weeks That lay before her. Sleepless, she sighed again and again ‘If only I knew what the future will bring.’ Until the future, hiding behind the door, Listening keenly, stepped in.
Picking up two particularly heavy days, It smacked them round her head. ‘That’s one thing,’ it said.
Then selecting an especially lovely String of hours, Gently laid them round her neck. ‘And that’s another,’ it said. ‘Now, before I go, is there anything else You want to know?’
‘No,’ the old girl whispered, shaking her head, Turning quick and over in her bed. ‘If it’s alright with you, I’ll look at the stars instead.’
Ever since I can remember, I’ve always loved words. I was never put off by long and strange words, always wanting to understand them and know how they should be said. I wanted to be a writer from the get-go but never thought it would be possible. Then I realised I didn’t care if it were possible or not, I was GOING to be a writer. Now I have an Italian speaker in our family and I absolutely love the sound of the words, love the way they are said, love what they mean. The Bible was my favourite book – a thousand stories and millions of words. Page after page after page!! All right there in front of me.
WORDS AND THINGS
Sometimes, I gather up all the words I love and watch them playing together. It doesn’t do to have favourites, I know that, But who can resist words that sizzle on the page and dance. Some so irresistible whole poems are built around them.
Colours are always delectable, Weaving their way through every get-together. Colour words do, of course, have to be dealt with extremely carefully, As favouring lemon over green Will attract very sharp looks from orange.
Full stops and commas, paragraphs, colons, semi-colons, Little Latin phrases, ‘Et tu, Brutus,’ etcetera, etcetera, And those little raindrop marks that attend every speech, Must all be taken into account But can be missed out altogether if careless of censure. Recommended.
A word of advice. Do not ever forget the numbers family, For if they are ignored or forgotten they get quite vocal, Even a little spiteful and unforgiving.
No! Keep them in sight at all times, Insisting they play nicely. One and one making two, for instance. Otherwise, you can never bring them to order, Even when put into really pleasant columns, They remain difficult and wilful.
But there we are, that’s words and things for you.
