‘Late, But at Last’

by Benjamin J Schofield

 

Late, but at last a rosy Pan

Has catered to us; a month through

May before the grass sits up

And the clouds roll back,

Sucked into some seasonal storehouse.

Lethargic, we find our feet:

 

Time at last to slip off slippers,

Beat in the leather of new work

Boots, and set to sweating through

Twelve old t-shirts a week.

One more wipes down the sweaty windows

Of his oak-smoked home,

 

Determined to set foot outside

On a Saturday afternoon, thankfully

Unabandoned to football practice;

The day reclaimed, salvaged

To make what he can

Of a compost heap and three dying sycamores.

 

Kids are out the front door,

Off to the dog-turd, broken-glass,

Burnt patches of grass:

Parks, if you will, scattering cheers

Up and down glowing villages as

Elderly, neighbouring figures

 

Miss the message of spring

Lost in their back-looking lives.

How could they have ridden motorbikes?

Whipped past stirring the wind in old sultry summers?

So unthinkable now their

Skin matches the faded leathers

 

Hung in closets, next to

Fur coats, illicit skins from Africa,

An elephant’s foot once used for a bedside table.

Hoarded for the sake of posterity,

And perhaps one day

To give them away.