I will not hang

by an open doorway, or even one

where the door is slightly ajar, glass bottomed, for fear of the label,

lest I hear your secrets tumble out of your mouth

and into the ears

of those less worthy of your undisclosed closet life.

 

I once heard my granddad through the floorboards,

a big man, a wise man, act as the secret man in red

with Reindeer slippers on his feet and stag like antlers

scratching down the back of any bus driver

caught misbehaving, tell my father as I laid asleep

on a bed so close

to the

floor

that he had my presents over the road for Christmas Day,

Christmas Eve and you find out at eight

that he didn’t exist, the same year I lost my faith

in God…

…Santa and God never seen in the same room together.

 

I ignore what they say about you, what is the point

of knowing half the story, I will not sit beside

a crack in the window, open wide mouth on both listeners,

and be all agog with mischief.

I will make up my own mind and sometimes

that comes far too late, far too entrenched in the world being kind

be kind, be brave and be courageous, but do not listen

at the gaps in the door

feeding the words down your earhole

how true are they, how true are they?

The spy never lives long, the spy loses faith quicker

in both man, woman and Gods.

The spider at the centre of the web,

plucking on the this silk, darkness in the heart

has no need for a God, just a multitude

of flies to keep her womb warm.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015