The compendium

They look for confession
an ear to the ground

I look for accession
a pistol in hand and

he looks for absolution
from so many sins

In the end nobody wins

It’s just a game of chance
spin the wheel
take the next dance

and then the music stops
the light goes out

the window through which I hear the righteous shout is starred with a thousand moonlit splinters,
fed late in the evening by the harsh cold winters that blow in from the North.

in January I came to her
snow on my collar
arms frozen wide
she took me inside where
the fire burned bright

February when the light became stronger
she loved me for longer each day

Matchsticks in March to keep my eyes open
hoping that I would see
April
not the cruellest month only the fourth
and May is for taking the bull by the horns
‘ corn’s in the meadow’

June flew by me
July burnt me brown
August and I headed back to the town
to the rundown estates
to the mistakes that I made

September laid in wait for me
October set the trap for me,
by November
I had tired of it
wanted to sit out in the sun
watching the shadows
pass.

December lies
Christmas ties us all into a fantasy
the catastrophe was that I
believed in it.

© 2016, John Smallshaw.