In Praise of Limestone (after Auden)

The walls are built so thin

we can hear the neighbours

stomata swim

cell to cell.

It’s all fluid.

You understood.

Like when they painted the roads blue

and you pined for roads blanked white with lime.

A funeral for a football team.

No more bizarre than anything else.

We can go mad.

You said.

As long as …

and there’s the rub.

All sibyl,

camera in hand.

Look, 

I’m lifting my finger.

Wag.

And again.

Slower.

Can you see my prints?

Like little sculptures.

They hang.

They flash.

They smile.

Your face stretched into a grin.

I can see your teeth.

Showing your clint again.

You tittered.

And that brought us to the swallow hole. A volcano erupting in Swaledale scattering sheep and slagheaps in wild erotic frenzies. Hills shaking, sending rivers and walkers off course.

And yet, under blue skies, with a glass of Christ’s Tears,

it seems crazy piling stones in lines.

Maybe to hold it all in place.

Better the mizzle and shivering groupings with cagoules and flasks. At least you know where you are, you mutter, pint in hand.