Pish

Privilege or necessity of age
this twice or thrice nightly quitting
warm pit for a slash in the dark?

Not that automatic
nocturnal quest to the loo and back
I woke to hear my father make,
heavy tread past my room humming
childlike under his breath
Oh Jeezy-beezy loves me
the Bible tells me so
and wondered that he went so often …

Years tell not in the mind but in the bladder.
It’s a reminder
who’s in charge here
as one unzips the tent and stumbles
turf thrust wet between toes,

to sway stop stand
upright in the night
releasing
streams of oneself back to earth.

I find myself
upright in late middle-age
a mast stuck into the ground
bracing the billowing
spinnaker of night
as the dark hull of this island
sails forth with constellated sails …

Cockleshell image, I know!
Couped by the first critical wave
but wonderful to float within
for the duration of a pish.

Damp soles dried on palms,
back in my pit,
first offices of the night performed,
I smiled at the dark and sank.