END OF THE GARDEN

white T shirt dragged out a crowded drawer bursts with washed fragrances of childhood.

soap

smells

of

security

and

the warmth when the heating comes on first time in autumn

and

everyone

is home for the night.

I was given careful explanations about the toys that can’t be played with.

obviously i’m plummeting into paranoid sadness.

standing

naked

stunned

and

basking

in the whirl of washed fragrances floating out a white T.

take these feelings and a drink for examination down to the end of the garden.

stretch

on

the

bench

and

a

spider

lit gold by all-weather lamp steaming from cold soft rain.

fragrances!  cant believe the power!  of white T clutched tight

then

slowly its losing power in the cold quiet and damp . . .

nothings

happening

now

and

no one will find me.