The Crate

Many decades back I embarked upon
A project that entirely consumes me
I collect years and my hoard is growing
I keep them in a crate under the bed
And drag it out at night to examine them
To fondle their forms and permutations

All are approximately similar in size
But so many subtle shifts and variances
Of shape and texture, colour and design
Some flow through fingers almost lazily
Others are brittle, or tender to the touch
Others again recalcitrant, compliant
Slippery, sharp, translucent or opaque

 My scrutiny is random, or it’s planned
I twirl and twist each specimen about
To reacquaint myself with its uniqueness
Reanimating its peculiar charms
Its tragedies, its fantasies and fears
Its physiognomy, alive under my hand

Each has a number pressed into its side
And when I spell it out, it starts to gleam
Images swirl, and I relive the past
As if the past had never abandoned me 

The only trouble is I’m running out
Of room inside the crate, and truth to tell
Everything depends on keeping the years
Arranged together, all in the one box –
So I attempt new, tighter rearrangements
Checking that each can still be lifted clear
Dreading the crisis that must yet arrive

Alex Skovron

Comments are closed.