At night I don’t hear the whales anymore
they used to sing, and float
magnificent,
translucent
around the foot of my bed
or around the caves in my head
so I could always sleep
in the truth of home.
Tap the piano keys. Bang them,
place your entire palms on the rectangular ivory fingers
and crash, explode your feelings out
in a glorious, cathartic drone
Please, bring me back
to the steady 5 o’clock days
where my father’s thoughts
echoed in notes
around the shadows in our house
and in the shadows hiding,
content
under the solid Jarrah table.
I rejoice in a group
of four knitted souls
brought together by candles
and a meal
I now think of three,
and it makes my face crumple
Like the paper I threw away
every time I tried
to write myself
a letter.
So now, now that I am more
than a mere crescent moon
but less than full
it’s all I can do, some evenings,
to pick up the prettiest autumn leaves
and hold them tender
in my two pockets,
clutching also
to a postcard from Paris in the 60’s
whilst
The apple crumble topping, sits,
pleasantly, in that constant site of destruction
reminding me of ovens, your hugs
Hermione the cat
and the thick, magnanimous
grape vine
wrapping its arms around us
every day of the year.