Thursday, 21 May 2009

Cold Tea

He wished for peace
away from his wife’s soap operas,
the neighbourhood gossip,
the constant babysitting for children
who just wanted peace themselves.

He had his greenhouse
and his potting shed
full of cans of kerosene
and petrol for the mower he’d had forty years
and the tools he rubbed with an oily rag
on Sunday afternoons
as he listened to the radio four play.

They found him at six
when he didn’t come in
for his ham sandwich and jam tart.
He was sitting on his compost heap.
Alone with yesterday’s grass clippings
and the warm embrace of nettles.

Watercolour and Pencil
3 ½" x 2 ½"


aims said...

What made you write this Rachel?

Misty eyes over here.

Leatherdykeuk said...

It was one of those poems that just flowed, unedited.

stephanie said...

Oh! Wonderful but so sad. Or not, depending I suppose.

DJ Kirkby said...

I like this a lot. It is very vivid. x

Leatherdykeuk said...

Thank you both :)

EB said...

Warming and chilling at the same time. Wonderful

Leatherdykeuk said...

Thanks you EB :)

EB said...

Erm, one thing though - I'd read it to mean that with all the flammable things in the shed, he'd set fire to himself, but several people I'm shown it to think he died naturally. Am I being unduly blood-thirsty?

Leatherdykeuk said...

EB - How wonderful. I wrote it that he died naturally but you have a wonderful alternate take on it. He could easily have blown up.

The shed was actually my father's -- he hasd all that stuff in a 6 x 8 shed.

BT said...

I thought he'd set fire to himself too! Strange minds.

Leatherdykeuk said...

Och! I shall have to be clearer :)

Becca's Dirt said...

Interesting writing. Becca

Leatherdykeuk said...

Thank you Becca