After all this time

only now –

finding the face

of my grandfather

behind the second

officer’s shoulder.

in the still surface

of the water

the leafless limbs

of the silver birch.

his eyesight and

his appetite –

failing; mouse

droppings gather

in the rice bin.

Slow water

- dripping.

Listening,

the Pianist’s hands

- moving.

Talking bookshop philosophy:

Heliocentric, Geocentric;

Socrates and Galileo,

Longitude to Trilobite;

though so deep in their

discussion open to eaves-

dropping, neither seems to

know that planets move

by different turns to stars.

timpani –

a mouse amongst

the empty pans.

THE “LOOK AT ME” SAVANT

He sits murmuring like some savant,

the only occasional words I catch

are: ‘Crap,’ ‘Shit,’ and, ‘Rubbish.’

Upon his head a black beret

worn at a rakish angle.

Taking off his glasses, putting them on.

Murmuring like some savant.

Sallow cheeks and wrinkles.

Crap, shit, and, rubbish.

A sheaf of papers neatly stacked,

putting on and taking them off.

Snorting up phlegm, rudely phlegmatic;

poring over a copy of Yeats.

Crap, shit, and, rubbish.

Murmuring like some savant

seeking attention from his unconscious.

Taking them off, putting them on;

Love poems.

Crap, shit, and, rubbish.

Snort.

poems by Tim Chamberlain. [all text & images ã Tim Chamberlain, MMIII]

Liberation first appeared in dew-on-line

> the razumov press