Little Brother

He came home angry, the

precocious young

composer of bedtime

rhapsodies, pounding out

lullabies on chairs and

shelves and doors.

Mum boiling in the kitchen,

big bright orange

carrots of revenge she will

feed him later:

a dish best served cold.

He slams his bedroom

door: my karma is

suddenly an elephant

stuck in a small room.

To avoid collisions I

scuffle out into the cold night.

If I am in a rage I will

stand under the tree with the

wind chimes: when they

collide the silence is not broken

but gathered up in the

great arms of the old tree.

Little brother,

if only you would

stop here awhile and

listen with me.

Copyright Ricky Barrow 2013

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