Alan Humm: a poem



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.