Clambering — K. Hunt

Where are the balmy summer evenings of my youth
The tell-tale marks of happiness
The ignition in the untried
The perversion of the soul possessed
By playful wontings
Unconcerned with time and tide?

What pulls the bread of pleasure from the mouth
Conspires to consume freely the inherent foolishness
Of the unchained
That carefully guarded ignorance
Left out behind the byre
And in the graveyard when the meat is done?

How has the loaf staled and the tasted faded?
It must creep up slowly to catch unaware

How eluded were the balmy summer evenings?
Their headiness replaced with the cold feet
Of a dark winter
How is the distraction enough to forget this once heavy crock
Cast and fired impervious
Filled to the top?

Without enough room left to remind
To return
To wring from this thin fabric
Put some back in
To repair
Generally mop up
Where the wine of youth was spilled

To leave the table clean for morning