Orange House By The Shore Poem by GRANT FRASER

I especially remember
crumbling orange broken
bricks in the sun,

three walls as I recall,
or were there more?

forty years since -
I've even breathed it,

big blue buzzing flies,
shadows panting on
the hills,
with a Ford Cortina
gazing out to sea,

grass blades sharp as life,
and salt sprayed
outlines all over my mind,

abandonment of strewn
clothes & odd looking stones,
men with bincoculars haunting
places above the shores,

playboy centrefolds
with the bits burned out,
strange objects that had
no name for me...

but the flutterings grew strong,
gravities that hurl
the heart up, out of it's place!

no other Summer like it,
time fell apart, and the sun
paced alongside me,

God was nowhere to be seen...
and dreams with eyes unfurled,
wanted me to do something,
get it over with?

the people back home...
I don't know - were somehow wrong...
and butterflies seemed loud
in the bristly silence,

in a hollow top filled with
fresh grass, I lay,
with my flies open,
and let fingers of blue
skies, descend on me...

rasberries sweating among
thorns, their red stained backs,
I don't know how long the
sun had been waiting...
for something new to happen?

I guess I can see you as that
diffrent thing that may not
have envisaged me otherwise,
growing into youth, reeling
for the pulse in my groin,

the energy of possible bee
sting kinetics, raising awareness
that the pin cushion in my mind
would inch along - to sense itself!

but it was death that stung first,
on a street, with a big lemonade truck,
a messy wet blonde mop of hair & blood,
so alive and red, with gello through it,

up to your wrists, as if not
connected to you,
the bright hesitant pulsations,
beating over lined jotters,
the pencil perfect letters,
that I dreamt of in the Sun
were all yours...