News From Home
She pulls the past together,
gathering weeds, twisting kelp,
squeezing minnows of memory
through shrinking nets.
My ex-wife phones
from a former home,
a village by the sea
now sinking
on a shelving shore.
"Brian the pub-crawler
took another tumble
he now gets rat-arsed on his crutches.
They closed the post-office.
the new Indian store don’t sell stamps."
I see them again
through a sludge of low tide.
Some have declined in mildewed cottages,
feet potted and planted,
moving sideways through time.
Some ankles have developed cankles.
The once young
dangle baby toes from stout arms.
The elderly then are elderly now.
"Jack Brown got married again,
his polyps hang like dewlaps.
Elsie Maynard divorced Ken at last,
he’s with a fat woman
that’s got studs in her eyebrows."
I feel her need to update,
to cover sea walls
with new growth or decay.
"Albert Didcott and his wife Dotty
moved to the new estate.
Their kid – the second youngest,
was knifed on a Saturday night
outside the Kings Head.
it was in the papers."
She fills in features
until an image floats upward.
The forgotten and remembered
bob between us as bubbles
faces we push to the center
of a clear glass of muddy water.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2020
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment