In my place

About noon with bare feet on
ice buckets of cold slabs
A Formica chipped table, poised,
Supports a state of the art watering can

Empty like a shell

You see, he gave my miniature apple tree
a well deserved drink of nutriment

Yesterday.

She, 6 yrs old now.
With rapid growing shoots
from dormant buds
On sap filled branches
To clusters emerald green

She’s in good company
Sitting comfortably in that
perfectly sized copper chamber pot
Purchased ever so lovingly
from the second hand antiques shop

She towers, dwarfing, lime green,
leaf and fruit sprayer

“Well they do say
fruit grow and plants bloom
by constant talking to and yes,
even prayer.”

An old rugged chair
No,
not the one I am sitting on
But the one over there,

Stands firm at right
angles to the corner

With high sturdy arms
and upright back
With woven reed seat
and back to match

Stained dark burnt oak
with an alarming crack

But trust me when I tell you
it will take your weight
As I have sat in it,
many times before

A cob web, delicately structured,
dances to the vibes of a gentle breeze
Like a stereophonic speaker
Suspended in almost
invisible animation,

Waits silently amid
the lattice slat fence
Placed discreetly along
the cobalt blue rail,
Casts a criss-cross pattern
along the terracotta wall

Still I feel myself falling
and eyes prying,

My God!!!!

how that grey Formica table top
is instantly transformed
Into something rare and funky
From the spray of interwoven
lace like shadow

You see, the Son is out
in all his majesty
And my balcony traps him
just like grains of sand
in an hour glass

Children play below in the sand
and the sound of a bird
calls to his mate,
Echoes in the eaves
of the roof tops

There is no reply.

The depression left on my soul
is just like that,
Sand, as it filters through
to a distant place

Slowly falling. Slowly falling

Unlike the sands of time
And the people who have left
their imprint all over
this place of mine

The sun burns down
upon my neck
My heart,
concrete
like a block of ice
As Alone I look longingly
at my orange phone

And see there is no message envelope
to say that you will be coming home.

Sean Benjamin 2006