Later we went back - dropping through the roof
tapped out by the sweet chestnut and time to rot -
into that kitchen of familiar ghosts. Above
the shadow of the cooker unturning the calender
refused to move from June. Rooted in the grim light
our fancies ran to memories of party food
and blue iced cakes until in spooked mockery
we moved into the living room. The floral carpet
gone, the leather settee sat alone, we climbed upon
it to inspect the bleached silhouette of the gun.
So many summers it had hung in the laze
and stretch of an afternoon, that the trigger seemed
in motion, not released, but tight against the cock.
No comments:
Post a Comment