There’s this poem that refuses to be stretched, refuses to be led on. It sits at my feet, snubbing additional details, refusing to budge. It’s a small poem. And it says everything it needs to. But I refuse to leave it be. So, even if I have decided not to burden it with saying what it doesn’t want to, I’ve decided a little insight into its conception won’t be intrusive.
On a hot noon
in a warehouse
somewhere in Beeston,
two pigeons make love
on a cable tray.
Below them, missionaries,
workers in the ‘toteyard’,
long for salvation, freedom
from roll cage routines.
We ended our evening walk at the Gedling Country Park with some ice cream cones. And we wondered, driving back home, how strange it was that we didn’t come across animals through the one-hour walk—dogs on walks with their owners don’t count here.
We walked past wooden sculptures of animals scattered around the park. A sort of “I was here” signature on the wall of fame. We returned home, Pete and I, for a couple of beers over Sunday evening English Premier League football.
It’s another Sunday, and I woke to a cheerful sun. It felt like a good morning to take a short walk around The Arboretum, before heading to church. Pete was away at Skegness. It was a good thing he didn’t take his camera with him. I armed myself with it and left for the park. It would turn out to be one energy boosting adventure, revving me up for the week.
The park was empty—of humans. The animals were having a party in the bright sun. Squirrels chased one another across tree trunks. Magpies stood in twos and threes, sipping on light, grateful for warmth. I didn’t make it to the lake to see the geese having their morning swim. It was a whole experience watching the sun smile down on earth—light bounce off leaves and the edges of lonely park benches. I clicked off on the camera, hoping to document as much of the morning I could. Here I was, experiencing what we had hoped for driving five miles away, two weeks ago.
‘Saving Totes’ is the end-product of the contrasting events. How we can easily remain trapped in our own minds as much as we can find ecstasy in unusual places. How we can choose to let a temporary situation affect us or stay positive and mine a miracle, give a gift of breath to wooden sculptures.
The pictures from that early morning walk at the park also culminated in a poem.
Cathexis
The sun splinters
Soft warm rays
run into my eyes
I squint
—ecstasy is reflex,
pleasure, bursting
like sprinkler heads
splashing joy over
laughing leaves
Three magpies are out
on the Arboretum lawn
dancing in the showers
of light—a fourth stands
by itself, deep in thoughts
The squirrels are carefree
The park benches are lonely
I'm clicking away on borrowed
camera, relishing the moment
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