Just Being There
Let us discard the night
and let it fall like work disassembled,
and feel ourselves lighten and evaporate
into this ether and listen:
to flies buzzing in and out of earshot,
to birdsong, or to a lone dog
barking at its own plaintive thoughts.
Let us listen to the apples and plums growing older,
to the dismembered walnut tree sprouting new growth,
and to ants scratching their initials on stones.
Ilike calls from Zagreb on the phone,
‘Szia dragam!’ Anyu Magdi says from the swing-seat,
her retrospective reading wearily laid aside.
Zigi obliviously practises handstands on the grass,
for the day he will join the Candy-floss Circus.
A freight train carries its load eastward
and we sit, sleep, write and draw in the garden waiting.
Our lives here abound with angels, who arrive
unannounced and in the main, look unappealing.
In this transitory state, what we perceive is invariably
not the case. The care we take in the morsels of council
from our own murmurings never enough.
In my dream last night, I sorted banknotes into
many bundles of a thousand pounds each.
I wrote my name and address on the last banknote of each pile.
Today, Magdi delighted in telling us the scandalous
gossip concerning the mayor of Gymörő,
who recently featured on a video snorting cocaine
from the belly of some poor woman.
Naturally, the citizens were all delighted at this:
Oh the risible paragons of virtue.
Later that night, we ate hamburgers, mustard and salad
from a barbecue of old wood we burned down by the river.
They all drank from cans of cold lager and Radler.
We drove on down to Zagreb the following day and Zigi
played Johnny B Goode on his ukulele and sang falsetto.
Copyright © Frank Gillougley 2015
Frank Gillougley was born in Paisley, Scotland in 1959. He has had 2 collections of poetry published by Lapwing Press, Belfast. He lives and works in Blackridge, West Lothian.