Sunday
the voices chatter, the pipesmoke curls
blue against the smokey panes
the flies buzz and bop
George smiling glances down
the men and watches
the slow passing of time
unravelling, the twitching ball
her fingers working
against the moving faces and
sudden bursts of laughter,
The room, outside the black dog
spinning, legs pumping childrens’ voices
the brittle shell golden brown
sound
pulling in it’s head
it’s nostrils tiny, round
splashes
like inside
mother’s voice
and the ancient chord pulling tight, down
down
the ripple of my face inside
the deep, wet, well.
David’s head, and knee rises
tearful red and wounded
Uncle’s soothing hand
and voice
lifts, and swooping down
swishes- just barely touches
as all around the clammering
and calling
to the china, supper table
where in the passing
smiling tales go round.
The roots below the stoney elm
buried, holding, raises the crown
above the roof where father’s hammer
echos in the silent wind
of breathing marsh where
far away the tinkling bell
brings the sound
of others never lost, just found.