Primary colours.
the mountains
were blue all over
and the grass was green
and white clouds
cast without shadow;
this picture
so simple, like a child
with poster paint, and sometimes
there really
are no words for the countryside
beyond speaking slowly
in primary colours.
we sat together
on the sheet
wooden pine, unvarnished since winter
and staining
with sunlight,
drinking our coffee
and eating
oatmeal toast
and marmalade. looking down,
across the hill
which made a lawn
and on which the grass flowed
windblown,
like the surface
of a rolling sea. one car, a silver fin,
patrolled the roadline, gifting us
with easy demarcation;
a way to decide
the end of land
and the beginning
of landscape
you can’t touch.
Cleaning windows
tied off
like crawling animals,
they scuttle
down the building, hurrying their work
as the rain
begins to rain.
the day
was finely
forecast – otherwise
of course
they wouldn’t be there. but the pressure
is plummeting
and clouds
come like horses,
in from every direction, heavier
than buildings,
floating on the grey.
ground-level, old lads watch
the harness – the supervisors
guiding their ties. above, their arms
spin like spiders, holding
sponges,
their belts
and squirtgun water bottles. inside
work stops
and people watch the windows,
gangly as fat
spiders, swinging
over depth.
the ropes become slick
in their grip
as the storm
thickens. the horizon
is all dirty
and the cleaners
underpaid.
A poet should like things fine.
but the thing is
my coffee
comes instant anyway, and my tea
in cheap bags, just brown
and boiling water. I never spend more
than a tenner on wine
and I like it. don’t cook
steak, and my fruit
is gotten
on special, and whatever is cheapest –
yesterday two euros
bought a punnet
of unripe pears.
Retirement.
too hard
to get lunch.
too hard
to open a window
and see the sun staring
in at you.
too hard to eat broccoli
or leave the house,
even for cigarettes.
too hard to wake up in the morning,
listen that chirpy
fucker alarm clock
and want to go to work.
too hard to –
too hard.
I want to lie on the sofa,
eat eggs
and turn off the radio.
I want to stay asleep
with blackout blinds down
and wake
and not know what time it is.
I want the carpets to curl
with age and mildew
and the doorlock
to break
with rust
and uselessness.
the world will end in fire
or flood if it must;
I want to die
without anyone surprised
they haven’t heard from me.
Doggie.
what ever happened
to the penny-sweet
counter, and children
don’t say “doggie” anymore –
have you noticed? it’s
“doggo” now – the influence
of internet. to say words
like “doggie”
or talk about penny-sweets
sounds quaint all of a sudden,
like “what in tarnation”
or “goodness” instead
of “fuck”, and birds you never saw
are common birds. I guess
this is my first shot
at becoming
old, really. watching words
which I grew up with
being torn out
by new words. evolution. like the garden
after your grandfather dies, sprouting blue
new flowers
all thist
Bio: DS Maolalai has been nominated for Best of the Web and twice for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016) and “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019)
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