Peter Gilmour
Crisis
Easy to dismiss as drunken nonsense,
But more poetry in it than nonsense,
I think. Garbled approaches, anyway.
Half way down the cliff, colours are brighter,
And the sea has a special eloquence.
So let us imagine him, half way down
The worst of cliffs, alert, bleeding, grateful,
Tussocks, rock rubble falling below him.
Vertiginous but enthralled, he stammers,
Finds his voice with a shout, strange words stirring.
Send me a dram down here to warm me with Christ,
Send me to see Him that I do not fall.
In the bedroom, half way down in darkness,
He ventures a song or two, a paean
Of sorts to God the Father, so long gone.
Oh forsaken bliss so long abiding.
Alright for a start. Better than most. Good.
He clings where he is, quietly whistling.
Page(s) 43
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