An etched crystal moon
and shadow detailed hills
witness me at the market
parking so badly, there.
That Dad says
"You couldn't park your arse in an armchair"
Which, of course, unravels me, and the world.
Yarn spools out from all around.
The streets become clogged with multi-coloured threads.
Each one named. So that I can see each one
unrolling from me, undone
by a memory's remark.
Two years gone and I still
wonder about what went on.
What he meant and how mean I was.
And will it be the same for me?
The bottle is then riddled, so that the lees settles in the neck of the wine bottle... Manual riddling is still done for Prestige Cuvées in Champagne... mechanised riddling equipment (a gyropalette) is used instead. (Wikipedia)
7 comments:
Yep, stronger.
I thought this was going to be a poem about yams. Imagine my disappointment.
That was Colin McCahon.
Beautiful poem, AK.
I hope it will not be the same for you.
Sorry Smut. It's just that 'String' is too long. You know, as long as a piece of...
Thanks Merc
Jennifer, It is not like that for me.
Very nice, A.K.
I will even stow the remark about super trains instead of parking.
~
...in my experience, one can never park well enough to suit one's father. It's the cycle of life (my dad just had to give up his car - at 92, a bit of a blow).
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