POEM - Parchment Days

This day, of all the days
ought not to wear a mournful frown
and yet, though
it's sky bears a virgin blue
it's sun lifts its golden face
and all its shadows
form brief but shifting halos
scuttling around my feet
like faithful lap dogs
in the cupped hands of my mind
sits this weightier anniversary
that sports a phosphorescent
yet darkly walking scar,
it was a summers day
exactly like this one
the promenade struck out along the cliff
with its usual provocative invitation to walk it
my body felt much heavier
than was usual
chest pressed in upon itself
as though it were an orange
being tightly squeezed
this presentiment, this estranged oracle
has etched a long long shadow since
and makes any day
a year later, feel all the more portentous
when placed in the shade of its recollection,
the story, is hence, carefully written out on parchment
in the thick strokes of a gothic hand
what runs through it, is desperately mortal
in the way it chooses to paint itself
more needy perhaps than is its due
pushing gratitude to one side
and saying, just wait your turn
you sunny faith-filled boy
for goodness sake
will you let me grieve first
for the end
of my being carefree and spontaneous
and flip and ….open-ended
where every action now
when it ventures a step into the future
has this contractual obligation to
mention the distinct possibility of death
of there being a bus terminus
life is now stretched out against
cut according to
the limit of a fabric tape measure
with its tiny brass sunset
every day, has now to be ‘blessed’
with life, it can no longer be forgetful
or mindlessly at ease with itself, nor flagrantly casual
simply just living, has become this precious princess
to be carried across uneven stony ground
with care, and love,
but also with sadness in its tow
for the loss of its naivety, is gross
one year on
that I feel grateful to be alive
still doesn't quite cut the full mustard
as a description
its a bit fucking weak.



Written by Stephen Lumb
10/07/2025