| Brian My crumbling little man, my
sandy idol
stripped down to just your underpants and socks
each night you stack the cushions up in blocks,
a pyramid to mark out where you'll settle.
Way beyond the boundary of the table
I slide my eyes across your curves and bumps
watch quietly 'till you slip to sleep in grunts
and sigh, content as any baby in a cradle.
It's when I see you spread like that, full stretch
my love, my God, my sturdy little falcon
your heels and toes hooked round the sofa's edge,
I realise you are my rhyme and reason
my sun, my light, the cause of every breath.
Our couch will sail the waters into heaven.
Scraps
A day of eggshells and lamb left-overs,
of fork-circling, and no sweet afters.
Words harden,
pile up in the sinking afternoon.
Tea's one teabag in a cup
or a pot left to stew.
By bedtime - a full days rubbish,
balanced to a fine art,
is left for me - again.
And I won't speak first
supposing hell freezes over.
At the dustbin
I'm eye to eye with a badger,
the black and white of it so striking,
that instinctively,
I call out to him to share the moment.
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