The back porch

Ohm Paul calls it the stoop,
I see no call to bend
to me it is the porch.

A place to stand and watch
a day drain into
desert white, sand and ice.

Colours running from the land
as the second hand ticks past.

Here on the edge of earth
no fireflies or tiger moths
swarm around the storm lantern.

The three extended steps
from kitchen to back -yard.
Enclosing walls of home
and warm hearths once known.

Stars reflect the icy waste,
a mothers face streams down
from the aurora glimmer light.

Animation threads softly-
the edge of earth and water.
A grey dove dives fast
into a frozen lake.
a phoenix emerges-

in hues of green and turquoise.

Ghosts dance among faded stars.
mars flickers out above the plough.

The wicker chairs stay pliant
in the breath of polar dry,
their rustle and squeak stolen
in frozen arid air.

Horse hair rugs from England
wrapped hard and tight-
on quivering shoulders.

On the bench a clay pigeon
holds the running joke
of a terracotta pot
a fraudulent claim to spring.

The ring of the dinner bell
hails us hearty smokers in
and we pretend regret.

-Dave Kavanagh

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