The Cherry Tree
In my head,
it's become an artefact:
something I tilt
to feel the light
pour through the windows;
to peer inside.
Each door
led somewhere so coherent
that your posture changed.
In the restaurant
I wore a bright austerity;
a tight non-smile.
The pub's air sagged with fag smoke;
clasped you tightly
while the building sang.
More of a tribe than customers,
whatever they were I was.
Flags, I suppose,
waved uselessly.
Baubles were draped
in lightning: tinsel nodding
to those songs
that sound like tills.
Out there, somewhere,
was Christmas; its simplicity.
For me, a cold flat
and a TV as small
as someone's hand.
Warm beer my untranscendent wings,
I sprayed a benediction,
waiting to be inhabited.
Alan Humm is the editor of One Hand Clapping. You can find more of his writing here.