Last thing he does
he dithers round the kitchen, lifts his 12-string from her hook,
strikes a ringing rasgueado, the echo bouncing back
emphatic from the slate flags and off the marble table.
He opens up the draught and gives the creaking stove a riddle,
livens up its embers, then slings a heavy hodful.
He’ll keep watch while the flames ignite – allows himself a strum-through
of an old Tom Paxton number – it’s in G – a fraction low
he thinks, so he’ll modulate to A, then C, his larynx
warming up. The last thing on my mind…thought turns
to dream as he replaces her, pockets his pick and yawning
climbs the steps to sleep. The furnace, open and forgotten, burns
a glowing cherry-red past three in the morning.
Mark Carson likes to write different poems about different things on the shore of Morecambe Bay.