When I am quiet,
face turned away,
away to some past place,
seen only by I,
when you cannot see my soul
for the glaze in my eye,
do not disturb me,
for I am wandering,
lost in miles of green acreage,
drowning in rivers too deep,
deeper than all the forevers
discussed throughout childhood.
I am searching,
seeking the one thing
that I have not.
What is it?
It is in strong tea brewed
at four fifteen in the morning.
It is in the smell of hand rolled
cigarette smoke, drifting
through early evening rooms
as I lay, not quite asleep in my bed.
It is in lunch at twelve, eaten
with Jimmy Young on the radio
and traces of bitter marmite
upon the butter knife,
and tea at six, punctuated
by world news and comedy.
It is in the past,
God rest it's soul.
So when, not if, I look lost,
please do not disturb,
for I am lost,
and I am weeping
and wiping marmite stains
from the tracks upon my cheeks.
© Berenice Dunford
14th April 2004
face turned away,
away to some past place,
seen only by I,
when you cannot see my soul
for the glaze in my eye,
do not disturb me,
for I am wandering,
lost in miles of green acreage,
drowning in rivers too deep,
deeper than all the forevers
discussed throughout childhood.
I am searching,
seeking the one thing
that I have not.
What is it?
It is in strong tea brewed
at four fifteen in the morning.
It is in the smell of hand rolled
cigarette smoke, drifting
through early evening rooms
as I lay, not quite asleep in my bed.
It is in lunch at twelve, eaten
with Jimmy Young on the radio
and traces of bitter marmite
upon the butter knife,
and tea at six, punctuated
by world news and comedy.
It is in the past,
God rest it's soul.
So when, not if, I look lost,
please do not disturb,
for I am lost,
and I am weeping
and wiping marmite stains
from the tracks upon my cheeks.
© Berenice Dunford
14th April 2004