Peter Day

Pictures of My Father

House 1

and you are near
in this house you are everywhere,
indivisible and un-divided.

You are here!
Yet invisible and nowhere
indeterminable vestiges of us,

but here visible in the graffito
of each days scratches and scribbles.
You are etched

into this house where there is an
anaglyptic covering of detritus and dust,
where the walls lean inwards to bear witness
to the history of dust,

each fracture and splintered-crack of plaster
the very pressure of time bends them
it archives them into matter.

What matters? Each ounce of daylight,
each particle of a remembered hour
cupped nonchalantly from life's momentum.

Our memorials are each mornings push
each evenings heave, the windows
shuttered and overwhelmed by the pushing hour

the marching armies of each seconds tyranny
Whilst inside each bodies ongoing,
triumphantly another dull moment is stored

unobserved and seemingly without trace,
yet inwardly screaming loud

I am here

Without renitence to the obstacles of time
We both grew older
conserving ourselves without immediate annihilation

This empty house allows us to be quiet and
reconvened till the palaver of battle is over.
Our histories are yelped into a chasm of chatter,

in this kingdom of YAWPs,
the whimpers and whelps are the least defined
I sometimes wonder if our poverty affliction

killed our noise,
knowing our place became experimental
and experiential

the unrecorded tracks to some weird ambient strum
the last tarmacked track of the L.P
top layered with silence!