Workshop Gold

lack of rain
at the cemetery
faded lawns…
I dust the headstone
lay mothers’ day flowers

We walk like drunks
   on the promenade deck.
The turquoise sea foams
   as we watch its hills and troughs.

We step in the salty spill
   which sprays the ship’s dark walls.
Rainbow reflections
    fold and unfold.

Ever present seagulls
   race across the wash.
White crests furl and unfurl
   sprinkling us with salty rain.

Traversing the corridors
   like a pin ball in an arcade game
 we bounce and scatter
   with each crumbling wave.

The curtain rises on a new stage
my living room   now dressed in timber
Where once I trod with muffled footsteps
on carpet drab and dusty   I now hear
each footfall loud and clear and in answer
each resounding creak   My floor speaks and will
not be silenced   What’s more it moves   This tree
with its rough bark skirt and smooth supple limbs
has yielded a living bounty   planks of cream
and brown tinged with a faint blush   heartwood
blending with sapwood in a medley
of straight and wavy grain   swirls   spirals
ripples   distinctive knots   and here and there
a stripe   a speckle   a splash of ink
from its black butt to stop me in my tracks
This floor’s not just for treading   It demands
centre stage   top billing   I’m floored   I’m quite
upstaged and loving it   I’m not just
walking on timber   I’m walking on air