The grass to my ground
The grass in the j
you – the colour of days
The shade of a night that is shifting from darkening to dark
– away from what light the day has kept left
to light its careful walk from and into itself.
From spliff to spliff and higher still –
Height only a little from mine –
the bottom of which wore stretched out scruffs of trainers
and scuffed pavements
as though they were a blight
upon your forever planned taking of flight .
Or as if they were little pieces of purgatory
Slabbed shoulder to shoulder
between an ascending heaven – of Glasgow and tall bricked buildings
and a descending hell, the bone strewn earth
and fiery centre.
Where History’s hidden by the spoil of itself,
steep and nested amoungst the soil itself.
I could never guess
which high or low
you were knocking to enter –
kicking the pavement to reach to
Till polar twist and up down shifted –
and you were other or neither or someone else all together [and entirely].
I hope you are happy where you are in yourself
And with yourself
For you deserve to be,
Man at the door.