I woke up crimson
autumn to gypsy
clouds a home
not my own.
Bonfires warm the cockles
said my neighbour as flames
split the dark.
I stirred wrathful
winter to trees
stripped of branches
only trunks remained.
I tried my best
said the Gardener spitting
dust and wielding a chain saw.
I roused one dizzy
spring to my lover
floating dead
in the fishpond.
Where were you this morning?
the police officer asked
but the carp refused to comment.
I woke one summer
night to blue flaring
beyond Ben’s farm
stressed over deadlines.
What the fuck’s going on?
asked the cat
tucking into her fish supper.
This poem is an example of my new work in progress, a poetry collection called Conversations With My Cat. More details here later.
The Purple Hermit 