Posted in Rituals

Brand New

The year I was free from exams
no enrolment,
no more study,
I met her.
The summer was long and dry
sheltered by trees
stone walls
scrub and flax
gravity pulled us down
and together.
Never apart
belonging to each other
sliding the banister of infinity
we raced dodgems by floodlight
ate waffle ice creams
and berries,
drank cheap wine
and plunged to each other
time after time.



Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.