Shells

A new tool, sealed into a plastic hood,
needs old to strip off its surrounding box.
What is inside, so precious that it would
vanish if touched by air or careless knocks?

Chops in the freezer wear shrink-wrap as skin;
comforting to pretend the tidy packs
were not real lambs. The mental skins are thin
that freeze our peas and pasteurise our snacks.

Curtains of media noise that no-one owns
boom and sing nonsense from a shoebox script,
glutting our senses with their endless voice.
People who live in plastic shells by choice
have fragile lives that can’t be safely stripped.
Give me sweet silence, strong as trees and bones.

April: 2008

Reels

Wooden and stolid,
my granny’s sewing reels were wrapped in jewelled silks,
the loose ends neatly nipped into their nicked rims,
faded paper labels defining strength and shade.

We rolled the empties drunkenly under her velour-hidden table;
made them into tanks with matches and elastic,
or clanking snakes with ping pong heads.
Four nails and wool knitted ropes through their centres;
the play-clattered edges snagged against coarseness,
a last protest.

Where are they,
her smoothed
silks?

December: 2007

Coming of Age

Drink to life, my love.
Sixty-five years stacked and dry,
lay down your worn tools;
stroll beside a gentler stream.
You need thirst for work no more.

January: 2008