The Architect´s Song

By Daniel Stokes

I never heeded the squeaks of the half-opened gate

nor the kitchen clock tchhing that you were late.

My pen, as it's wont, under pressure scratched on

till the unruptured quiet exploded she'd gone.

For weeks, no for months, I could hear the room moan

how she never liked it, her armchair intone

that it was made use of, while the two wardrobes whined

she'd stripped them and skulked off, herself on her mind.

But we worked on and planned for the day you'd come back,

A few flowers, a nice wine, what we had still intact.

Till by wind and by wire sure and short came the news

that you lightly gave 'way what I'd dreaded you'd lose.

Turned, waded through routine, and the walls still as stone

told nothing I'd do could undo what was done.

And the carpet hushed boards that were tempted to squeal

as I peered in at the hurts that I couldn't yet feel.

Now, I've taken the belt of a spade in the face

and know numbness allows but a brief breathing space

and to sop the surprise from the onslaught of pain

screened unexpurgations of dread on my brain.

In a year and a day I could name you aloud

with no claw in my gullet. I'd worn my want out.

And laying out plans for the rest of the year

saw how much we'd have done if you'd never been here.

Now the door's been repainted, the hall redesigned,

the garden reseeded, the curtains relined,

the furniture covered, refurbished or new

and the bell's been retuned to chime fuck off to you.

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Daniel P. Stokes has published poetry widely in literary magazines in Ireland, Britain, the U.S.A, Canada and Asia, and has won several poetry prizes. He has written three stage plays which have been professionally produced in Dublin, London and at the Edinburgh Festival.