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