(c) Of the Still High Intent
(In the Still of the Night)
It’s after twelve; time once again to delve into the depths of my psyche.
A quiet time to ruminate on who I am and what I am and is it ever likely…
That I will solve the riddle of why the estrangement came to pass.
We had ‘words’ on the ‘phone to be sure but how long does this endure?
Didn’t he realise that I was not in my right mind? Why was he so crass?
Now it’s past one, I really should be done with all this spirit probing.
But I’ve been putting this off like a student avoiding an assignment, hoping...
That somehow it will miraculously resolve itself and once more we will embrace.
Now I’m reduced to sending text...messages of despair. I declare: what’s next?
Now as my breath diminishes and I’m struggling for fitness, why has he not the grace...to call?
One thirty now; nothing on the box worth pursuing, even sacred cows is abed.
A quiet time to ruminate...but I said that already; too much coffee and maze in my head...
That I can’t quite get a handle on and why I don’t seem to have any patience left...
Even when we are out shopping; my lady worries over me. But it’s not her fault.
I, in turn, am concerned for her; she has a recalcitrant ‘child’ who is emotionally bereft...
Good grief, it’s past two! There’s nothing particularly profound here.
I’ve examined the conflict, if indeed one exists, even consulted my ex and peers...
Who shake their heads in disbelief and offer guarded words of advice.
It is a disconcerting emotion to feel antipathy towards one’s own progeny.
My son has become prodigal and I can see no logical reason why; it’s not very nice.
Coming up for three; perhaps a cup of green tea might clear the cobweb?
But...no, my kidneys are already in overdrive, I’ve worn a track to the ‘shed’
And I’ve shed more here than mere water; I really ought to go to bed and slip on the mask.
Now my daughter has migrated to Melbourne, wearing her mask of...drama?
She has yet another potential partner, but he might be a smarter choice – dare I ask?
Quarter to four and there’s a tapping at the door of the study – “Who’s there?”
It’s my long suffering wife who has come to rescue me from myself, wearing...
A mask of anger and anguish; upset that I am languishing over things that can’t be repaired.
“There are no magic tricks that will assist,” she insists, gently takes me to bed.
I fall into a dreamless slumber; unencumbered...no ghosts need to be heard.
The still of the night gives way to the light of a brand new day.
The phantoms of my mind have receded for now and breakfast’s on the way.
I can see the camellias through the window of the study: familiar friends.
The birds are chirping – gosh I think that’s a black cockatoo! Grist for the mill…
To write about – there’s life in this old dog until night falls and the stillness tends…to pall.