Mango Fudge

Mango Fudge

Part I - Recipe

Holidays
are made of this -
a basin of warm weather,
filled with a generous helping
of days as easy as
a lazy

river on a leash
friendly chatter like cold beer
down a throat dry with
shouting at four walls
moments

of drunk laughter
silly humour, not pieced out
in chance bites but spread
smooth and deep delicious.
The sun

a generous mango dollop
on a plate of sky
a day you reach into
a bag of sweets with
no fear of finding
empty wrappers.



Part II - Digestion

Confessions after the second
evening drink are the easiest
to forget and swallow with
the next.

It's the mid-afternoon
story of a child's death
that makes you think of
the screams

that have no walls
to bounce off here, perhaps
they collect as those black
river-shore rocks

hidden under deep skirts
of water in some weather,
in others lying naked, bawling
to the sun.



Part III - Fudged

The woods are silent
when they creep up on you
The woods are silent and still
You ride an empty road
comfortably through a country
of burnt grass and rock
until

They're on you in
row after row, still and bare
Regiment after regiment they drill
past – a sepia evening parade
coming at you in thin
slices

Of time as if
This road dipped in and out
of sleep as it dices
talk into slow spaced words
scattering breadcrumbs of sound
smelling

Of sweet witch cake
that stains your hand yellow
as you try to ring the bell
on this door of perception,
that remains closed for yet
another spell.