There in the gallery
Glass tables
Set out in rectangular patterns
Some had clay, some didn’t
There was clay
Which I worked
I was part of this
Upstairs
A huge piece of furniture
Which looked likely
To topple over
At any moment
I felt responsible
I was part of this
The main artist
Had been overwhelmed
He left
To go on a walk
His disciples worried for him
I got on with the job
I felt to belong
Today is the shortest day
So followers of the winter solstice inform me
You see I am not so well versed
With the factual facilities of life
So I get by, by believing in
What others care to bring
If it is the shortest
Might it not also qualify
As the brightest
Which a scientist may tell me
That the sun and moon and stars
Coincidentally deliver this to me
In this body
The only one I have
There seems to be a need to say thank you
For a good nights sleep
Benjamin becoming Thomas
Behind the rotating foam drums
His father appears and suggests
That being Thomas isn’t such a great idea
Andrew arrives, full of cold
Shivering he puts the present
And card on the back seat
Then drives off back home
Such is the timing
On this last Saturday morning before Christmas
Emma, Tim, and the boys, flying at three
To ski on the French slopes
Why did I buy that book
The woman in the dunes
Was it that I was taken there
By that person on twitter
Whose posts I cared for
Or was it something to do
With you, and our times
Running down the sandbanks
Or was it the write-up
On the bookshops online page
Yes, those words
Existentialist
And Japan
And one of their most lauded
Literary stars
It will arrive tomorrow
But that’s not the reason
No, I do have self-restraint
But it wasn’t my recommendation
It came out of the ether
If there was space to fill
Then for sure I would fill it
If there was a need for untidiness
Then I could no doubt be there
Even the photographs
Can be out of focus
Or unevenly lit
With an unmeasured depth of field
Yet the steam from the flue
Or the birds in the tree
Well they cope admirably
With their own sense of order
