Beyond DIY
Winter haunts
the bathroom wall,
inviting damp
to fill cold corners,
shape faceless
negatives in mould
Observed
through steam when lying
in hot
water, old discontents, reborn
as stains,
small guilts on warping paint
Faint apparitions
of anxiety, surfacing
behind the
taps, a recalled cast
of past
mistakes, sketchy forms in white
The angler-fish,
all teeth and razor
patience, the
eyeless soldier, broken flag,
the
crooked bird, on unhinged wings
Ghosts,
condensed in two dimensions,
uneasy blot
and patch, one day to be
exorcised,
with new brushes, dipped in gloss.
An average sort of stone
It’s nothing but a random lump
of broken rock, former gate post
maybe, or fragment of the other house
that once stood here, before a stray bomb
turned terrace into unintended semi –
either way, we’re not expecting much
when we tilt it – but our shifting
discloses latent power, secrets spark,
shadows shrink, as daylight rushes in,
flushing dark out of the underworld,
and we are possessed by fascination,
myself, my son and every child inside
who once was me, gazing now at frantic
legs, writhing orange, segmented lurkers,
exposed alongside squirts of congealed fat,
soon recast as unhappy slugs, squirming
like teens roused early, relieved only when
curiosity relents, puts the stone back in its place.
Matt
Gilbert is a freelance copywriter, who also blogs about place, books and other
distractions at richlyevocative.net.
He has had poems published by Atrium, Black Bough and Ink Sweat & Tears,
amongst others. Originally from Bristol, England, he currently gets his fill of
urban hills in south east London.
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