Uncle H Poem by Mark Murphy

It is quite possible, then, that Hector
deceives himself with visions of love,
trinkets, amulets, photographs - all junk,
all of it carried from pillar to post,
the assemblage of a secular life;
when, what he sees, is the fallen ankle
of obsession, bleeding in its sandled
glory, bloated on the field of regret;
lying, lying, lying, like weathered bone,
anaemic against the whitening sky.

That’s Uncle Hector all right, always one
for the grand negative. Poor uncle H,
busy creating his own disturbance,
stares at his shield, abandoned in the sedge.