Simon Heathcote

Photo by Aarón Blanco Tejedor on Unsplash

The great sufferings are upon me —
they come when the stars are heavy with debt
& chalk lines of ancestors are crumbling
in mind & outstretched hands —
when an unseen history grabs you by the throat
throttles the bars of the nervous system
designed to defend against a sweeping
avalanche of childhood wrongs.
My protector — bless him — remains
at his post like that Japanese soldier
you learned about as hope began to dwindle.
You are still an island, bayonet in hand
waging a war long deceased except
for the glitch in the mind, a software
programme ready to take the fight to all comers
who have no idea what you’re saying.
Then, with relief, you remember it’s
all happening to a character within a dream
who for a moment became unglued
while you, the watcher, exist
eternally free from harm.

Copyright Simon Heathcote

--

--

Photo by Tandem X Visuals on Unsplash

In equatorial temperatures of vast summer
walkers take to the pavements unsure
sheltering outside by the old house
under great fans of elm & bent oak
listening for water
while sun rains down alone.
We straddle too many worlds
for months happy orchids praying for heat
soon wilting & wishing we hadn’t wished at all —
the old human story of the grass is greener.
Then we get what we want only to discover
it is not what we wanted only what we thought.
Weather is just one topic but you could
play the same tune on any set of keys —
iniquities of the mind a plague
on all our houses, while a winter hand
walks over a piano, as Rilke says, cold & heavy
‘as if plowing through deep drifts of snow’.

Copyright Simon Heathcote

--

--

Photo by Giammarco on Unsplash

We are both remnant &
spawn of another season
evidence littering the house in
ghosts of the past — photographs
dried flowers, the careful way
a napkin is folded, a glass put away.
How we do this or that
pulls on invisible threads
even cold stone hearts, then
the warmth of a solitary blaze.
The mystery can hit you hard
in a moment of stopping or new
trauma that resurrects the past.
We owe so much but cannot see
or simply forget, recall only hardship
sorrow & bitter stings when all is upheld
by great clouds of unknowing
quietly taking on our debt.

Copyright Simon Heathcote

soulvision.co.uk

--

--

Simon Heathcote

Simon Heathcote

Psychotherapist writing on the human journey for some; irreverently for others; and poetry for myself; former newspaper editor. Heathcosim@aol.com