Dan Wyke's 'Days of March'

1

Cycling home from work, I followed a pink grapefruit
rolling slowly down New England Road.
It kept reappearing from under the cars queuing at the lights.
At the bottom of the hill I turned right and lost sight of its progress.

3

I text you about vegetables and immediately feel sorry
for not making a more romantic gesture.
Courgettes, aubergines and the humble swede
stand in for all the inarticulate power of my heart.

7

This morning my badly bruised big toenail finally fell off,
revealing a second, softer nail growing underneath.
Healing, regeneration; not the life we think we live.
When one heart breaks, another starts beating.

8

I open my eyes and see an orange balloon on the floor.
It looks so light I feel myself lift slightly.
I can see it isn’t the same as the concept I have of it,
but I find it difficult to accept the freedom it so evidently desires.

12

Poor, persistent words, nibbling away at the inscrutability of human experience.
Being is inarticulate, pre-verbal. An Everest of indifference, Niagara of bliss.
This morning, I was struck speechless by spring sunlight.
After six years of therapy, I realised: I don’t know what I’m talking about.

15

On a bitter, blue Sunday we walk to the beach.
Daffodils and sunlight between winter trees.
Offshore sailboats and patches of turquoise sea.
All day I feel absent and unable to connect.

17

Walking to the post office to renew my passport, I find a box
of Trivial Pursuit someone has thrown out with an old TV.
Were they planning a life of austerity, of wisdom over knowledge?
I stand there for an age questioning myself in the sunlight.
19

When I dive out of the rain into the toddlers’ group in the church hall
we are welcomed by three young women who feed us cake and tea.
After a while, they ask me, nervously, if I know about the Sunday service.
How comforting to find someone else concerned for the state of my soul!

21

Our Christmas tree stands in the front yard
with a pile of dead leaves swept up around it.
I keep returning to the bathroom window to look out at it.
We have neglected something that lit up our lives.

26

After sex last night I thought, ‘Christ, why am I
so hard on myself? There’s only this life;
go and buy James Tate’s Selected Poems
and stop waiting for the price to go down.’

28

I feed news on Facebook that a blackbird is singing in my ear.
David Wheatley follows with something abusive and funny overheard in A&E.
It is true the pastoral is sometimes an escape from reality.
David, I hope that you are alright.

29

Monday morning: viral, unresponsive; my life is passing.
The sky is blue, unfathomably beautiful. A toddler in a pushchair
tilts back his head and lets out long, loud vowel-sounds.
His mother does not understand and tries to stop him.