Posted in Death

Bygone

Posted on by tq1695

The road folds along green cork screw hills
to forest eyebrows of trees.
Golden light, and soft pastures
imaginings of Provence.
Weekend punishment counters
weekday sedentary comfort.
Salt sweat mascara cries down
a foundation layer of dust.

One last climb
long and slow
fast descent to the plains
enjoy wind rushed hair, then flat to home.

Late summer, early autumn
apple season
red, juicy and inexpensive.
A bag of memories from a perfect day.

Time is good
a man emerges from the shadow of behind
to the light of the counter.
A question how far have I pedalled.

We talk, a range of topics
young and unaware
when conversation faints
he administers the oxygen of question.
The sun slides behind hills.

Afternoon is fading I must go – he reluctant
money is waved away.
Later the clues are deciphered
widowed
longer than ache
less than grief
he seeks the unknowing comfort of company.

Many years later I returned
the orchard is gone
the trees lifted
scattered fields where fruit once fell.
An old church occupies a corner
serving coffee not a congregation – theology retires to commerce.

Sacred memories polyurethaned in wooden floors
light pauses through respectful windows
tumbling onto happy tables
warm and sombre
echoes and music. The afterlife.

For the back story click Backstage
If you like a piece of writing (or the site) please share.

Posted in Antarctica

Bookends

Posted on by tq1695

The old hands said Antarctica never forgot
after a while you belonged
and part of it belonged to you
anyone who had done 5 or 7 years
or a winter
was a member
memory couldn’t identify the exact point
one day you just were.

People told me I would miss it
my thoughts would spin South
as a magnet to North.

The first October 1st
I paid no attention to the first flight
I turned my back to the other initiation rituals.
History : Control. Alt. Delete.

It was my first visit to the New Zealand base
our workers the previous year had behaved badly – very badly
had left an odour of hooliganism everywhere
especially at this little outpost of New Zealand.
We required permission to go beyond the front desk
I needed to see the Officer in Charge
to arrange to sit my examinations
I asked a man standing in the foyer
he was curt : “ I’m not the receptionist mate.”

Two weeks into my first absent season
a helicopter crash
three dead
including the ‘not receptionist.’
Antarctica could be praised, or cursed
but would not tolerate being ignored.

For the back story click Backstage
If you like a piece of writing (or the site) please share.

Posted in Antarctica

Announcement

Posted on by tq1695

Antarctica has one more post. A new volume, Death, begins on Friday February 12. Death the point at which the frequent contradiction of theory and observation converge to absolute absence. A membrane through which loss passes to non-existence, the space occupied by a person, entity, emotion, ideal or hope that is gone and gone forever. A collection of (un)poems which are reflections of an audience of one. A person holding and slowly turning an urn of ashes, thinking about what is, what was, what might have been and the slow formed acceptance of cutting the cards and drawing the joker.