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Selected poetry

by Simon Fletcher


Unfinished

A flash of reddish hair can still
set me all a jangle in the street,
persuading me for the moment
that we should try to make it work.

But the occasions of love are few
and should not be strained or studied;
rather they should be taken gently
and treasured, not mourned for.

And if the writing down, the fet-
tering, can keep love's edge in a-
beyance, why is it the words
still move on the page and jam me up?

We've been apart for a year now
         *          *          *          *

From The occasions of love
© Simon Fletcher, 1994.


A Little Bridge of Sympathy

For Basir Sultan Kazmi

We talk of mutual concerns,
while the conversation prances
ghazelle-like around the room and
Faraza cooks and Wajiha
watches "Raiders of the Lost Ark",
beyond our chat, in the next room.

Your father, the great, late talker,
wanders through back streets of Lahore
in your mind with his candid friends
in the early hours of morning,
your grandfather, military trim
holds his pose in crisp sepia.

I tell you of working the fields
with my father, the grass cutting,
fruit picking, slog of ploughing while
my grandfather has tea with a
certain politician; all this comes
back through the lens of memory.

Raiders of our 'lost arks' we reach
out across years and languages
to build bridges of sympathy.
The past is a foreign country,
indeed, and what we did there, what's
telling is what we both do now.

From A little bridge
© Simon Fletcher, 1997.


Mowing

Walking steadily behind, moving the
pitch fork in a half scoop, half drag fashion
across the front of the body, if like me
you did things mayhap, left hand dominant.
The sun beating down and the dust rising
from thin, ant-infested soil, the wavy
grass lying in swaths among the plum trees
and occasional disturbed partridges' nests.
My father, sweating like a bull, guiding
the tractor, master of the cutter bar,
had used to scythe all four acres by hand.
His shadow on the land now grown dimmer,
each time I see him he looks a different
old man, sadder with years, the soil, machines.

From The cherry trees of Wyre
© Simon Fletcher, 1997.


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