A Short Break

A short break, a space to think,
to work things out: his need
for order, her love of silence.
Outside, though the sun was bright,
the wind never stopped. Sand
hissed beneath the cabin door,
gulls skimmed the waves,
small birds flickered into bushes
after night flights over the ocean.
People drifted into the hard light.
Inside, he over-read each word,
he weighed every sentence.
They had never felt so far apart.
Each hesitation filled
with the hiss of the spring wind.
They ate at the kitchen table
while sand sifted over
the wooden floor.
The argument, when it came,
drove them back towards each other –
as if stopping
would be the end of them.

Metal Cabin

The cabin shook with a polar storm.
My son appeared on the laptop
and told me he was lonely
in his new job in the city.
Snow powder hissed
over the metal roof.
I turned up the volume.
He said he went to bars
almost every night
but always sat on his own.
I told him I was scared
of the guys in the control room.
He said he spent too long
in chat rooms
but there was nowhere else
to meet people.
Snow drifts pushed
against the windows.
I said I was always there for him
and when he nodded
I believed he was there for me too.

Technician

It was the first retirement party
I’d ever been to, and even though
they sang his praises, he was

always rude to me. Maybe
he used to be helpful and kind
but to me he was a bully,

resistant, angry. He was mean
about people who’d done nothing
wrong, yet on his last day

everyone had tears in their eyes
and said they would miss him.
Maybe he’d changed. Maybe

work had ground him down.
It’s 45 years later, and my turn
to accept a leaving gift.

My colleagues turn to the buffet
and fill their plates. I’m not sure
if I’ve upset them. I can’t tell

if I’ve changed or stayed the same.

Paul Bavister has published three collections of poetry with Two Rivers Press. His work has appeared in Confluence, Dream Catcher and Smoke. Starlings came highly commended in the Rialto poetry competition.