Norfolk

Strange to hear in an orchard
(Where the bones of fish
Are caught in the grass
And the shade beckons
Some cooler secret
From the shrouded picnic),
A confession by way of a joke.
A voluble drunk
With amber
Whisky doses himself and
Launches tirades
Into the apple laden branches.
Half funny and equally sad
He moans on,
Like a mesmerised actor
No longer believing in his speech.
Shimmering fields
Make more sadness
Of his flightless words as they
Trickle out of reach.
Words learnt as a child
Lost as a man.
He decries his debtors
Who he believes to be his
Father and mother
And recently departed wife.
He holds his audience
In silent, patient attention
Guessing he is but a parenthesis
In the teaming sentence of life,
And that to be liked
Is surely the loneliest of things.