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Peter Robinson

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Remembering February

The love of life begins at home –
in shadows cast, in household chores,
or scattered toys, the whole place
like it was abandoned, some
further things to do and slice
of brightness under doors.
Hail blows across diffused sunlight,
clutters the window. I vacuum up
dried white breadcrumbs on the carpet,
tidy coloured shapes, dolls’ shoes,
and various picture cards we use
for banknotes, playing shop.
In tears, you tell me how the dust
creeps over us; with every glance
at matter out of place, still, hurt.
Yet somewhere here, mislaid or lost,
our car keys mark the difference
between a mess and dirt.

*

For weeks, I wiped the girls’ runny noses;
heard their coughing, snuffles, groans;
succumbed to the very same viruses
with shivering, fevers, aching bones –
a foreigner who had done his share
of pining in this township, on my own
account, by windows, wondering where
the love of life ends if not at ocean,
earth precipitous beyond last pines,
at sky itself with white clouds, hill lines
visible for once, or anywhere else –
if the land’s fall didn’t play me false.

 

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