Have you seen the white kangaroos?

I have lain down
my bouquet
beneath the tree

I have removed my shirt,
folded it carefully
along the pleat
and lain it down
beside the flowers.

I have lain down
the rucksack
heavy with poems

I have lain down myself
to read those philosophers
recommended
by teachers and friends.
Soon I may take off my boots.

Once,
in what seems a previous life,
I made love
on a day even hotter than this
beneath an olive tree
on a mediterranean island

Laying alone beneath this tree
and remembering
I think I am already old
for my energies
all turn inward now
my senses,
ever on red-alert
are sucking-in new qualities
from familiar experiences
but rarely do I reach-out
or touch
other people

once or twice
people have asked me:
" have you seen the white kangaroos?"
and of course I answer
" no!"

Sometimes people ask me:
" can you save my life?"
and of course I answer
" no!"
because I know that their anxiety
is just a lack
of patience
(and confidence)

'Your life'
and you
run at different speeds,
all you need to do
to see happy
is match pace,
fall into step
with 'your life'
(and confidence).

Soon I had removed, not only my boots
but also my socks
just in time
to gather-up my things,
get dressed again
and leave the cooling shade of the tree.

I carried the bouquet
along the beach,
that beach which
was never really a beach
past limpid boats
glued to mercury river.
no tide lapped,
no breeze stirred;
my boots,
too hot,
too much
for this day,
glancing into pebbles
at a safe pace, a retarded rhythm;
me with a bouquet
of michaelmas daises
("or September flower")
and Cornflowers;
a stranger here
with flowers
which are strangers
to beaches
which are not really beaches.

Looking up I see repairs
being made to a tower block.
I count the fifteen floors,
one square window at a time.
the top flat
has its cladding ripped away
revealing what look like
marks made by a fire
which seem to render insecure
all the homes and tenants below

A girl,
languishing on the sea wall,
catches sight of me
she in a bikini,
me in shirt and vest,
thick jeans and boots,
and with a bouquet.
she palyfully asks me
to buy her, go buy her
an ice cream.

Children are smashing windows
of a disused maisonette.
children are running races
in a fete on the green.

I walk up
onto the wide bridge
which arcs over the railway lines
and down into the town.
this unnecessarily wide bridge
has no cars on it,
only me,
although it's Saturday afternoon

Half-way
up the uphill of the bridge
I notice the daisy petals
are curling-up,
wilting in the heat.
for some reason
I try to hold them differently
cradle them like a baby.
maybe that's what bouquets are,
doll-like promises of children.
my baby is wilting.

Why am I here and where am I?
I'm home(?) for an old friend's wedding
when I meet him at the doorway of the church
he says: "hiiiiiiiiiiiii! Nice of you to dress-up!"
and then I realise
how inappropriate I look
with my rucksack heavy with poems
and my bouquet of wilting daisies

Still, we all survive the ceremony,
using our little hymn cards as fans
which makes some of us recollect
scenes from movies
set in Southern United States court rooms and churches.

The references to god
make me uncomfotrtable,
even a little sick,
but the vows
make me surprisingly emotional
and I feel
what is called love
between the bride and groom
emanating out
into the congregation.

After photographs
and a reception
there is a party
in the local dock town.

A three-piece band
plays versions
of what everyone wants to hear
and some dance
while others
mind children in the pub's garden.

As the night progresses,
more and more adults
are to be seen
clambering among the garden's climbing frames
and swinging on swings
while trying to keep wine in glasses

As I leave
with my sister and her partner
the band plays out with Elton John
" donletthesungodownonme"
which follows us
into the amber-lit
council-estate street.

Within a row
of closed shops,
a taxi-office remains open
and through its door
thrown-wide to the night heat
we can see a woman,
bathed in thick yellow light,
sitting alone,
doodling.

I dance a little,
with my sister
very slowly
in the street
before we get into the car.

Then a drive,
like all the drives of my teens,
along essex, thames-estuary lanes and 'a' roads
and by-passes,
and it's still a pleasure,
to feel myself rolling through,
a landscape of lamps and lane-dividers
never needing to know
what lies beyond
in bleak dark fields
but now glimpsing
the lights
from the dock town,
catching the eye
of one particular light,
high-up in a tower block
and somehow presuming
that the person living there
has never heard of white kangaroos
nd has never left that town,
and yet always knew that they had-to,
always knew that they must.

©1997 Paul O'Kane

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