Attilla's String: or A Thread We Hang On

For a change from un-occupation
in the late second millenium one morning
I went down to Lawrence’s place
to see Michael who used to be shearing
and knocked at his self-hung door.

No answer! I knocked louder
It was then I heard his pre-occupied
Tenor, lamely thrown - like a misball
in a serious game - across echoes of roof
I’d helped him with, saying: ‘I’m round here!’

I marched around the selfbuilt brick
of the house to look for Michael.
There, up site, on the departed earthmover’s bank
he was below the rotary clothes hoist, reaching
down to a bucket - to clip at pegs.

Yes! He said, smiling in wooden taunt.
I am a direct descendant
of Attilla the Hun, and here
I am hanging out wet washing.


November 1998 © Wayne David Knoll

First published in the book anthology ‘Hush, Men Are Speaking’ 1999, Woodendm Victoria