On Subject Matter

It was always chilly, brusque, perhaps a bit abrupt

milk turning sour before a thunder storm

the petals of memorial flowers; fragile with surly edges

it was always more Dickensian workhouse than Disneyland Paris

 

the sudden death of a child - knocking the wind out of you

the slow death of a parent - wringing and grinding you

people who don't speak to anyone for weeks - lonely and windswept

a man sitting in the park drinking strong lager - the cheaper, the better

mothers whose sons are the scum of the earth - where did we go wrong?

 

this was just the way it was, the way it had always been

though she intended to change

to think better of it

to contribute to the happiness of humanity

in some small way

to write something nice, for grandmas and children

 

not the ashen grey, that moribund pallor

not the deep burgundy of regret

and not that taciturn blue, the colour of arteries and loss

 

something with a redemptive vein, something bright and life-affirming

warm and light, yellow and sweet

like fondant fancies

and Easter chicks

 

and there was plenty of material - all the externals were there:

food. Always plenty of food

a warm bed

clothes, jewellry, make-up, seven pairs of shoes

Friends. Good ones that had weathered her decades of foolishness and indiscretion.

And books. Exciting, gripping books

books stacked up to her ears

 

Even those quiet, startling moments

looking at the crescent moon

watching a bird bathing in dust

the twinkle of a joke in someone's eye

 

it was all there - she was not ungrateful for it

she felt like

she should feel like

she had it all

 

but late friday night she sat down to write,

finding again, and again and again

Sadness

has its own voice and it won't be hushed

it's own gait, it's own face

reflected on her page, in her prose.

She saw it again

in the click click of keys,

it's true; what they've been saying for years;

what's inside will out.