Like a set of graded kitchen pans
the newsagent's children,
back from school, file into the tiny corner shop,
and all so small, this neat, obedient, clean set,
to enjoy the enjoyable. It seems a modest enough aim
and what we're meant to do by human nature, surely? and yet
that urge to set up the next scene, to move on - do you remember
those old films where the heroes were always saying to their side-kicks
runs back like an instant fast rewind
like it’s said to do at death
and hits you wham between the eyes
What is it doing on the clean carpet,
that bit of pink something?
Not a curse upon the house-proud
and it’s difficult to say exactly
what they do, or
how useful that task really is
they’re ‘close’, we say,
wishing to be fair, kind, just;
wishing not to know too much;
in case this clouds
Oh the pleasure, the happiness,
the delight, the joy, the bliss,
of doing just one thing above all!
Between each word, what happens in the mind?
what moves from hearing, seeing, through the worlds
of thought; emotion; both perhaps enjoined;
what depth of silent stillness may unfurl?
A child with shining eyes,
eyes as alert as any wild creature
guarding its life; free as a human child
who’s loved and watched for,