Your sharp little pencil,
its fine lines slice
deftly through the dishes,
the prepared meals, the niceties.
Where the fleshy heart of intellect
pulses on the undefined
frontline of desire.
You are a new Sun on an unexpected morning.
Not reading French, I read you in French
and grapple the ghost of your clever hands,
prod recesses which surface with re-viewing
and trust to Faith the translation which haunts the shadows of me.
How we romanticise lost wars,
close eyes for the first
kiss of the first bomb.
Throw ourselves into
the killing carnality.
Tell virgin soldiers lies.
Get patched up,
return to the front.
How we cling
to the possibility of victory
when every daily defeat tells us otherwise.
The band of brothers of lovers,
the walking wounded
who have wound up dead and alive.
A murmuration swoops, curls
blackly against creeping dusk
seen silently from the window.
I imagine the camaraderie in furious wings
the machinations of large populations
where all are bound in keeping an even distance
and rarely stare a neighbour in the eye.
I don’t deny the beauty of it, the collective mind in flight
but all this is from where I stand, and
not the birds-eye view of
small town minds where small good mornings
and bare civilities keep us comfortably apart.
do not blur
or get edgy
but in an important sense
just are not there.
Everything is fluid
and undecided until observation.
It’s not uncertain.
It’s the way it is.
There are pulls and pushes-
But these are all internal events.
Now ageing, and living
the long months of low sun
where slate grey or silver sky hung,
where bare trees scratch black lightning,
peppered hair on virgin white pillows.
Dreams bled to monochrome.
I wake to find Her back to me
and the rolling hills of blanketed hips.
My hand on her hot rump
a warm reminder,
as a sun-baked rock at midnight
of the gone day’s heat.
Tamp the baccy down-head of the cob pipe-
get it lit, hand shielding.
Screw her eyes wi the squall
stood there between the front door and
her oak chair three feet away
Her man the chandler gone
old nets heaped on the beach
Wet rigging, crates.
Me at three, with new thoughts, in shorts, gets a smile.
In the ground, with nothing still,
rotting and living,
nourishing another day. For today
just isn’t ready.
In the silent mutual walk to the graveside.
In the being, the togetherness-
the sole sounds the acknowledgement
of all our footsteps slow-marching.
We carry your memories around
lighter than the casket we allowed
you to be buried in. We have to
believe in your resurrection.
But three days is a long shot.
Frost or steam
The flickering flame
of a dream dance.
Dinky little steps.
Universes when gone.
Seasons and feelings
bubble and spark.
of bare existence
If anything is forever,
it is nothing that lasts.
Opened to closed.
on a heart-soft sea.
In oceaned permanence
Talking to me.
The calm conversation of our histories.
If you continue
you will never
be the same
I told you so.