A Fallow Man Poem by Grahame Lockey

Swarthy brow and barley fingers; nails with cheerless moons of grime;
Deadweight sackcloth suit coarse fitting; long his laughter, short your time.
His hand on your shoulder makes you older, holds you where the clocks don’t chime.
His grinning bearhug makes you bolder; reason does not sit with rhyme.

Warmest friend and crushing lover, John he is a fallow man;
The hand that does your mouth uncover, in vino veritas, grand élan.
Heads and beds and pangs of morning, John he harrows who he can.
Rake your embers, heed their warning, clean your conscience, the old drip pan.

John he has seductive unctions for to make your presence swell.
Take a sip, have no compunctions, come with me where the happy dwell.
Endless spate of amber water, the fount of all that’s good and well.
He leaves you where the shade is shorter, where that is we won’t hear tell.