Myra King

cake tin rusted
 
the farmhouse
of your childhood
lies
somewhere in the miles
which ripple
underneath
 
scenery flicking
a road more gravelled
 
steer it to the quiet
let them overtake
             these
left
            of focus outlines
fog the mindscreen
turn          a           round about
 
life’s cruise controlling crooked
d
   o
w
     n
the driveway
agapanthus blue
 
square       familiar      greying
galvanised        tin
radiating        warmth
never
 
backyard shed
an Alzheimer cell
in memory’s flaking cage
 
wind-blown
feather-forming
point-of-lay-thoughts
 
mother’s words
come to whisper
in mind’s ear
the path is yawing
 
take this cake tin
stupid girl
it’s rusted
you should have dried it
after baking
wasted
only
 fit for filthy fowl

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Psychic Meatloaf Poetry Journal