Song of the concrete mixer

Water, gravel, sand, gravel
sand, gravel, cement, gravel
that's how I do it
rumble, rumble
that's least trouble
slosh of water
down the shovel

Love of concrete
grey disease
smooth as the back of my brain
eases the memory
kills the pain
my barrow is filled
I must work on

No cement in shops any more
sold out by Christmas Eve
everyone's catching concrete now
they follow a week after me
five million bags I need
and on the third day of Christmas
(as soon as the shops reopened)
my ex-love sent to me

a pale, cool present
grey as eyes
damp as hidden tears
and calm as rain

Rumble, rattle, rumble
tip, shake, heave
wheel, pour, smooth
lie, caress, breathe

Obliterate the past: it hurts
flatten the irregularities
level out the earth and all its plants
and when the ground is covered
horizon to horizon, flat and even
I shall rest.

Dennis List

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End of Falling Off Chairs