Small Change
We rode through the wet Sunday country
To the beat-blue house where his mother lived
Alone
(On the other side of a hill I know better now)
Wooden fences trenched with moss and soaked in the afternoon
The light was empty and grey those days
Pastures were yellow and tall on the roadside
An old building, a church, silent and dirty, small houses
yards ringed in gravel without children or sound.
Painted on the walls of the day as we rode,
victim and victim
and the whole scene, changed from first to third Sunday every month
was always the same to me, and it seemed to always
rain and even
now
when Sunday is rain
and un-yellowed with afternoon light,
I feel those memories flashing solid and un permeated
(by the date on the calendar, the address on my mail, the age in my skin)
on the side of my thoughts
and the funny thing to me still is
that I live five minutes from those fields
five minutes from the wet road whose name I found out
when I found out my lover’s family was sharing the other side
of the blue-housed hill –
two sides of a nonsensed coin.
email me about it
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