Two poems: Death & Metaphor

Two more poems.  They are both a type of meditation, with the first being prompted by the weather and the second being based more on a recollection from my youth - but with a link to the present too.

Death

This cold; this sun.

Remind me of my

first few days in Spain,

when sitting in shirt sleeves

in late December warmth,

seemed like a gift

Christmas forgot to wrap.

Now, it is necessity.

The sun is fix, not luxury.

The bright; the blue; the clarity:

combine, for days to form

a pattern that can

take me home.

Metaphor

The towel that I used today

was crimson red and,

as it dealt with wet,

I thought of Cornwall,

many years ago, on holiday,

St. Ives, in a Church Hall.

And lurid towels all set out

to catch an emmet’s eye.

My mother’s eye was duly

snared and handling the

yellow, blue and red,

she asked the gawky youth

who stood behind the stall,

‘And are they fast?’

His blank expression spoke

for what was a non sequitur

for him.  My mother saw

his doubt and added,

‘Well, do they run?’

The wildness in his eyes

prompted my mum to

further modify to,

‘Can they be washed?’

Which wasn’t quite the point.

But his enthusiastic, ‘Yes!’

was comfort for them both.

My mother’s shame in

innocent unease ensured

she bought the things.  And we

used them until they were

quite thin; because we smiled

whenever they were washed.

Today, near me, a table set

about with eight old men,

creates a rolling wave of

simultaneous talk with

scattered, shouted, wordy-spray.

I catch a name, a team, a phrase.

But understanding’s not complete.

My decades count for nothing,

and I am now the gawky youth

struggling to understand.