This is a piece of poetry I stumbled across that I thoroughly enjoyed. It’s written by my good friend Haz, and was posted on Writer’s Cafe. I couldn’t resist not sharing this work of art.
Note: The following piece was inspired after reading Seamus Heaney’s Death of a Naturalist.
The clippings snipped from butterflies, in all sorts of off eaten colours,
flies and beetles with limbless centres. Tucked snug in corners and on ledges.
Bodies half ghost, eyes wandered somewhere. Furry bee buttons
and odd jewels placed in rows across floorboards.
Watching spiders fumbling through the grass, under yellow Wellie Boots
and when it rained, making faces with their soles in the mud.
A dead mouse feathered in decay on the front steps,
the pigeon the cat felled in a splutter, inspected.
Its this place he returns, the house a shredded flag
on the mast of time, ripped and soft.
The bulbs don’t rise and light with the ‘on’ flick,
the sun in summer now clouded glass orbs.
The clock in the hall way untwists, its thin hands like fragile legs,
pulling apart from the rusty joint.
The drops on the chandelier are dew in a web,
the carpet shrivelled, coughing under step.
Door knobs stiff, like the tadpoles netted, and then left in the bucket too long.
A film of dust on the curtains feels like the grey velvet of a moth.
And all the sofas have shrunk like cricket shells,
moss is splintering the garden wall, wounds in the stone.
The garden and fields have burst and browned, all on their own
never needing the boy to chatter and trail, on his journey home.
The whole of it breaking with the lightest of snaps,
though still listening, he can’t quite hear.