these are strange days
hot and humid days, sometimes rainy mostly warm
always long days, warm days,
sad and long days, strange and warm, long days.
the neighbourhood diva has left without warning
and another Polish grocery has opened on the high street
these are days made memorable by your absence
crazy days, days of surmise, of longing and dry lips
mostly sad always long days.
in another part of the world
young men throw stones at their oppressors
and have their brains blown apart, their blood spilled
and their mothers wail in vain, beating their chests
in vain, as the fist of time and the indifference of the world
blows a hole in the wailing chests of their mothers,
who wail in vain, as their sons are buried in soil that is burdened
with the blood and tears of wailing mothers.
meanwhile, nearer still, the resident poet walks in the
northern moors in these warm cloudless days,
long and often bare days.
we spend much of the night smoking, waiting as we turn
to previously read love poems, remembered and liked alike
and now read loudly in these mirthless days.
these are days soaked in blood and made memorable
by your absence, days of longing, hot and humid,
sometimes rainy but mostly warm, long days,