Poem 231
Definitely a gloomy Sunday in winter poem – someone’s got a new life down south and the sense of distance is only accentuated by the phone call …
( I like the idea of being able to hear the faltering contact, the static of a bad connection as tide scratching on the underwater cable, the hammocks of the wires, birds pinning the voices passing under their feet, stopping communication and creating awkward pauses … the admission of defeat and sad recognition that nothing significant can be said in say hello to yourself … )
Toll Call
It's raining at your end and raining where I am and by the sound of it raining the whole length of the line the scratchy tide in the strait the dark afternoon sound of rain in the fields headlights and wipers and the repetitive cross-shadow of poles our voices sleeping in the hammocks between pinned under bunched birds say hello to everyone for me say hello to him from me and also yourself put the phone down go back in by the fire I might listen a little longer to the miles