Pieria View

Do you remember his name? Time on time he’d drop it Over the years and yet No-one bent to pick it up  Funny that. Used to joke he had A better head for names than Faces, but guess they both fit Through the neck of a bottle Can somebody not leave a mark? There are scratches under the seat Where he’d pick anxiously waiting On the bell to ring last rites And the memory of a seat that’s Always taken so you don’t even Look to see if it’s empty though The room’s buzzing with thirst Not much to show for a life Even one travelled so lightly  Still you might imagine a footprint Somewhere behind in the dirt

It was as if leaves suddenly started to turn  The singing broke a morning’s stillness Green faded into yellow; yellow to red Sound cascading down the walls The heat pressing through the clouds Not much of note to mark the moment We didn’t recognise the tune itself   Jasmine climbed away from its frame But the key changes resonated The flowers having fallen weeks back Time, then, is counted in shortening hours Notes dropping above and below Between what was and what’s to come A bit flat, now a little sharp, always earnest Taking pleasure in the not knowing You never notice till the season’s past A last chorus drifted through glass How that smell of blooms covers all sins Was it a hallelujah or just the mind’s echo? Its absence returns sticky-sweet rot Better to have spent the time distracted Silence carries a new weight now Than fall from vines in trying to capture Ears peeled as if expecting the encore Another autumn