My old dictionary
You lay on my desk,
dropped carelessly like litter.
Your spine as stretched and split
as bark peeling from a tree,
exposing the torn brown linen
of your broken binding.
Your front cover is askew.
A skater trying to regain balance,
falling back, feet skidding forward.
Showing well-thumbed corners
curling up from stacked, yellowed,
and liver spotted pages.
Grubby and finger searched,
yet faint gold letters hint,
at your value, your importance.
Cool to touch, friendly to feel,
I breathe your musty breath
and search to find certainty
within your ageing wisdom
******
Night Drive.
Tunnels of black reflections flash past.
Wipers beat and heater blows numb tiredness.
White starbursts, stab at eyes that try to shut.
Red… Warning. Braking. Stopping, waiting,
rotating blue, wailing through wetness.
Arms waving, lips mouthing unheard words.
Kaleidoscopes of amber usher us away.
Alert eyes, avoid the RTA.
******
I am Born.
Post-war winter, harsh and hard,
wild winds and soft snow flurries.
Across a darkened old farmyard,
black bag in hand, he scurries.
Watching the window and the clock
a father’s full of worry,
until at last the doctors knock,
then up the stairs they hurry.
Above, a labour weary wife
and anxious midwife wait.
An ancient struggle for new life
all hope it’s not too late.
A daughter’s face is tired and pale,
she’s frightened for her mother.
The silence, shattered by a wail,
at last, she has a brother
******
All poems © Jim Haynes.
