Edwin Best: lyrics | fictions | episodes
twilight
and even the silence seems frozen
forty years ago
under a sky like this
we lay together in your flea-market fur
dreaming wild dreams out loud
I never knew anything could be so soft
nor meaningless things ever mean
so much
we were coming apart at the seams
back when friendship meant more than anything
even cold
where are the waters that lead me to rest
your voice in the morning
your foot on the stair
a chair by a window overlooking
no place in particular
your book on the bed
here beside me
you reside with me
through all times
uncommon prayer
bedtime story for the sick at heart
dog sigh on an unmade bed
at eventide
unquiet prayer
while children are still heard
in summer gardens
women come no more to offer comfort
or laughter
unholy prayer
full throated
now my visitor from the trees
fall away
imperceptibly
bring sleep
and there were many buildings and temples
and who is to say which is false and which true
so I kept going along the old coast road
in the hope that I may find a way through
for once more would I visit my father’s garden
and stand among the olives and the vines
even though I am old and weary
what is his is surely mine
so I keep going
where there are many paths down to the sea
for along this old coast road
there is one
that may be recognised by me
the old man had lost something
of inestimable worth
more precious than he could ever say
now his burden felt a little lighter
a little lighter
as he went upon his way
sitting on the bed
notebook raised to the rough angle
of the ridge opposite
where the orange cubes of a new estate
have sprung up against the skyline
I recall another time
I sketched houses in distraction
as one parent raged against the other
in the summer vacation
before they parted
I shouldn’t have started
the light diminishes – evening comes early
evening comes early to all of us
who dwell in the valley
old man on the beach
he might have wept
nothing worth the keeping
could be kept
the house on the shore
stands empty now
a cupboard door
swings open
only the boat lies broken
not the ocean
My sarcophagus –
enclosure of the soul;
I thought I was there
when the bed was cold.
I feel better now
but when you’re old,
sometimes your pulse
gets kind of slow.
I wonder when the worms
will start to bite.
Just some thoughts
on an otherwise cheery night.
[first posted Oct. 17, 2015]
often there is only me here
now
and one place mat
where there used to be several
but birds still sing in the
high hedgerow
at dusk
when service is over
experience flashes over us
like the morning shower
the more intense it is
the more difficult to grasp
for one whole second
let alone an hour
if I could only hold a moment
from that wellspring of joyous giving
but all I have are these
dull memories
like casts and molds
no longer living
so long ago it seems
intangible as dream
but for these cold fossil forms
obtained by digging
Another Way of Saying 