Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry

With a smile which had melted many women
he told me what he did.
“I’m a thief ”
I laughed at the joke – it wasn’t.

He had been in and around our circle a few months
summer turned to autumn
ephemera of transience – post-exams : pre career
picking fruit, pruning trees, thinning buds.

Intermittent work
was it possible to make a living?
Some did
but not him
which led to the question.

He wasn’t a specialist, a general freelance
fashion was to blame…. something became desirable
everybody wanted it, some could pay, others not
that was where he came in – the middleman.

Insurance was a sideline : commissions and sales
scheduled burglary to remove specific items.
A deal works for both parties
for the victim a replacement
for the contractor, merchandise without inconvience.
“No”. Nobody would talk.
It was MAD : mutual assured destruction
sometimes appliances … sometimes vehicles
occasionally valuables – returned after pay out – and for a cut
he made no judgement – just provided a service.

Infinitely patient he answers all enquiries
this was a good place to operate
lots of migrants during harvest season : outsiders = blame.
He’d lived here a while now, been a sleeper the first few years
the trick was to work
and not seen to be living above station.

To my social world he brought an artist’s grace
charm
pretty women and more wine than he drank.
A skilful conductor dulled misgiving’s notes
covered a soloist weakness with orchestra power
coaxed silent conscience into applause and ovation.

Morality refracts through time’s prism
illuminating callow impressionability
revealing admiration as artifice
and reluctance to denounce popularity.

Several years later
another town and another lifetime I am working in hospitality
managing accommodation
I see him
and turn away before he sees me.

She had been a ballerina
movement was confirmation
poised
exact
graceful.

But here? Doing this?
A growth spurt
too much height
not enough thinness.

Disappointment attempts laughter
it doesn’t work.
A pause, savage and kind
professional regret
I have my own.

This she knows
without being told.
Different and similar
we form a friendship
of sorts.

The supernatural world a polarising fog
of scepticism and devotion underwritten by
almost ridicule and not quite belief.
A twilight where reality dims to perception.

Ghosts, often the subject of flickering campfires
restless relics of doomed trails, unclimbed peaks, fatal rivers
seeking redemption. Easily imagined when told well.
Phantoms. Only at night, always vicarious
except
the haunted workplace and the revered predecessor.

She was twice removed
one before, the one before me.
No surname or title ever required
known, well before the interview is over.
On the first day her memory is waiting to greet me
an honoured guest on the tour of introduction.
At each stop tribute is paid – an expanding eulogy
perhaps the spirit world is offering a lost soul a minder.

Flippancy proves to be prophetic. Entry to the present
is blocked by worship of the past.
When my time has come and successor chosen
I raise the possibility of an exorcism.
A gulp of water to coax reluctant vocal chords
to speak sacrilege.
the removal of her name from the roll of honour.
Before courage is depleted an interruption
the heir reminds them of her as well.