Old People Live Here
You will know.
The front yard will be neglected,
part green, shady and inconsequential,
or it will be immaculate,
like a freshly combed haircut;
just as they would like their grave sites to be
- flowers or forgotten.
You will stand at the door or porch,
and hear nothing but the movement
of the hall clock, a preparation
for the long silence of eternity.
And you know that within,
you will smell history
mixed with a sad derailing of the senses,
the overcooked, over heated, undetected,
lives unwrapping slower than petals
yet running (like athletes) to seed.
Wedding
Young laughter broke a moment
after splashes in the pool.
Scattered atoms of chlorine
wassailed on the breeze.
Spiders, hungry in lavender,
hung on their silken platforms
in windless scented niches,
disinterested in the burr and clack
of conversation and plates set
between silver in a white marquee;
disinterested yet aware.
Jejune senses guarded, though
they had no choice but to tolerate
the uninvited that busied,
gathered, or set a fire to meat -
ribs parted on the open lawn.
Soon no touch of breeze would lace
the quilt of fields laid out
across this tiny patch of Tarn,
beyond white gîte
and ample shade of chestnut tree,
where bride and groom would meet
wet-eyed, to vow a heart-spun bond
before the gathered needy guests,
motionless as spiders,
hungry for the moment
with the expectation
of a following feast.