A Fall From Grace (1992)
Gordon braced himself for the inevitable chill.
The weathered shreds of his (piss yellow)
Herdwick polar-neck fluttered
as prayer flags do on Mongolian steppes.
Such native textile resolve would test
even the craftiest best of breeze and blast.
This punishing, honest, regretful wind.
From the edge,
glacier-blue eyes seized sections of landscape.
The cruel melt triggered blinking to drive away
insistence of wept.
Precious dry stone pens crumbled before the old man:
broken frames, empty, save for new breeds of sedge and tussock.
For much too long this Yak had exhausted oxen
memories of famous pulls and lifts before
the involuntary wasteage of sinew.
Ready for death, hungry for life,
his beliefs turned to re-incarnation.
He thought of Grace, cozy-content by the
throbbing heat of the coal-effect electric fire
(senility-blessed, poor dear),
television-tethered and warming elephant legs
all varicose like Danish blue.
Startled by a cheeky gust (he kept his feet, just)
a flask appeared from his silver hip, pinched back
and the Sun donated a single hot ray to his heart
and out his backside.
Some time had passed and the air surrendered still.
Becoming aware of the ebb and flow of his rusty cage,
glazed eyes rose to meet those of fellow elders
and the Pikes turned dark, obligatory nods of
“Eh up” and “Fair thee well” in one.
He forgot the descent from the fell
and arrived at the gate of his chosen dwelling
just as the Sun and Moon were swapping shifts.
Cobalt eyes dropped upon the bleached cottage:
blushing pink as man’s scarlet star
sank off to excite another day for distant brethren.
Inside, Gordon immersed himself in the waters.
Once a Giant in fjords,
the steep-sided tin bath swallowed him,
sitting on stone flags like an upturned cowbell.
Albescent whiskers and his shrinking, translucent trunk
hammocked softly in suspension.
A gentle sway rocked him.
His quiet knees surfaced,
and a dying limb, with a wedding ring,
struck the sides in muted chime.
©1992 John T. Windle
Gordon braced himself for the inevitable chill.
The weathered shreds of his (piss yellow)
Herdwick polar-neck fluttered
as prayer flags do on Mongolian steppes.
Such native textile resolve would test
even the craftiest best of breeze and blast.
This punishing, honest, regretful wind.
From the edge,
glacier-blue eyes seized sections of landscape.
The cruel melt triggered blinking to drive away
insistence of wept.
Precious dry stone pens crumbled before the old man:
broken frames, empty, save for new breeds of sedge and tussock.
For much too long this Yak had exhausted oxen
memories of famous pulls and lifts before
the involuntary wasteage of sinew.
Ready for death, hungry for life,
his beliefs turned to re-incarnation.
He thought of Grace, cozy-content by the
throbbing heat of the coal-effect electric fire
(senility-blessed, poor dear),
television-tethered and warming elephant legs
all varicose like Danish blue.
Startled by a cheeky gust (he kept his feet, just)
a flask appeared from his silver hip, pinched back
and the Sun donated a single hot ray to his heart
and out his backside.
Some time had passed and the air surrendered still.
Becoming aware of the ebb and flow of his rusty cage,
glazed eyes rose to meet those of fellow elders
and the Pikes turned dark, obligatory nods of
“Eh up” and “Fair thee well” in one.
He forgot the descent from the fell
and arrived at the gate of his chosen dwelling
just as the Sun and Moon were swapping shifts.
Cobalt eyes dropped upon the bleached cottage:
blushing pink as man’s scarlet star
sank off to excite another day for distant brethren.
Inside, Gordon immersed himself in the waters.
Once a Giant in fjords,
the steep-sided tin bath swallowed him,
sitting on stone flags like an upturned cowbell.
Albescent whiskers and his shrinking, translucent trunk
hammocked softly in suspension.
A gentle sway rocked him.
His quiet knees surfaced,
and a dying limb, with a wedding ring,
struck the sides in muted chime.
©1992 John T. Windle
