concrete cures forever
I was told by a builder
not in the medicinal sense
but strengthening over time
then a letter caught up with me
on this winter’s day
so cold two ducks are on the chimney
billing complaint into the ornate mooring
the words came from before death
of our joke about moths in his wallet
he was too cheap for his shout
and how it really happened that day
at the Duke when one flew out
and we were on the floor laughing
just the carpet between infinity
the underlay of worlds
a vibrato stitch of things
hand writing filtered by sand
conversations with an albatross
hanging endings in final saliva
the stamp his last touch
when he reached for us on earth
taking three years to berth
with wings from a tropical butterfly
James Walton was a librarian, a farm labourer, a cattle breeder, and mostly a public sector union official. He is published in many anthologies, journals, and newspapers, and is the author of three collections. He is now old enough to be almost invisible.
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