The Bennet
I still blame the concussion –
the cold crack of the bike rack to my skull.
I’m mixing words, told the girls
I’d buy them skirts in Lebanon,
stole a whole trolley by mistake
and have to keep checking I’m not naked.
Here, there’s no-one else walking.
No-one to staple me to reality.
There are cracks, rips, slips,
so the line-ups don’t match.
Birds cry out of thin air,
giant mackerel perch on their fins.
There are bones on the path – I’m almost certain
they’re not mine.
And now on the brow, in the mist
men dragging bodies from ditches,
shoulders hunched in silent howling
Pushing. Pulling. Bent to task and ghost
choirs breaking our hearts with all those
war songs our parents used to sing.
There’ll be blue birds.
A flight of steps is sliced into the hill
I’m counting myself like a register
until I’ve reassembled sense into me,
look back through the gorse at the golf course
and there’s a raven on the fence singing
tomorrow, just you wait and see.