He brought down the axe
on those prehistoric stones
that had regally edged his flower bed
public and permanent
undisputed leave to rule granted,
planted, for centuries.
Meaning to smash those stones,
dash them down to size
despising their indestructible
smooth confidence, since
his lay shattered,
he refused to be thwarted by disease,
disappointment and a blunt axe.
Raising his game he brought to bear
great anger and frustration,
torn muscles and brittle bones
screaming, tears streaming in rivers
past slivers of stone,
whilst they remained, undiminished
taking pain without complaint.
The grandfather clock coughs
and then they are all at it,
armchairs belch their stuffing,
tables drop all their leaves, cushions deflate.
The radiator complains of a temperature;
the bed winces when I lie on it, so
I perch near the moaning fish tank
watching eczema paint peel from sore throat walls.
Later, I grab my guitar, but it winges and slides
out of tune with the day,
offending the aching ears of the television
which begs me to turn the sound down