In the garden, we used to sit, eating buttered biscuits,
laughing. We were reduced to enjoyment.
Blaze. The simple days of evermore.
Asleep await with languid longing.
Forevermore. Forevermore. Forevermore.
I used to love each separate day
like seven cherished separate children run
wild round the yard in play, and we,
a crawl, a tortoise, a dream,
with buttered biscuits, laughing.
The things we would say.
Those things we have said
to each other, the butter, our ambling ways,
they’re gone. Gone.
Gone. Gone. Gone.
That daze shot dead as ducks
Now we are dying
beguiled by looming, wearisome demons
in the guise of a beautiful, idle presentiment
spat out and hammered like venomous train-tracks
from the lying mouths of miscreant fakers.
Where is the luster? Where is the sheen?
Where is our butter and biscuits
and dream of a drawn-out, meandering spring
of lolling softly in the garden?
Gone forever and unremembered.
We uprooted the garden to make more room
The things of function and fortune.
There is no room in life
for a biscuit, half-buttered,
or an hour of gesture
For we have discovered the genius of others!
We have uncovered the truth in eachvother!
All other impulses,
copyright: C. Ward 2017