Friday, 31 March 2017

Not All The Time

 
Something. Sometimes.
And then, not much.
Sometimes, reached for, and
sometimes, untouched, unspoken,
inconstant, undone...
sometimes, the moon,
...then pushed away
by the sun;
and yet;
here,
and bringing,
only love,
never waxing, nor waning,
it fits
like a glove of
satin, a tender caress,
one hour: more
the next; less, than ever,
made small
un-needed,
footprints in a soul and a heart:
bleeding,
when it is not
quietly
sleeping,
in the warmth
of an honest embrace - when
it cannot, smile
and press it's face,
to the safety,
of a rhythmic chest...
breathing calmly, in a feather-bed
nest,
as certain
as the stars will shine...
given,
over
wholly,
to something
that need not
be defined.
   

Tuesday, 21 March 2017

Fresh

    
In the twilight, I slipped back
between the sheets,
where I tried to re-enter
my precious sleep, in the empty
space I was expected to be, now that the sun
was rising. A deepening orange,
heated the horizon,
and victoriously, heralded day,
and I knew I was no longer
supposed to need,
all those creases, carelessly made -
I was supposed to pretend and turn away,
from that which I knew to be right, supposed to
see now, the fading night,
as something erased, by dawn. And it was not so
easy then to stay warm; amongst those illicit, untidy thoughts,
without some assurance
inside. I rolled and stretched; a chained sort of sigh;
buried my face and tried to hide,
as the light,
slid deft fingers between the curtains.
Only one thing was all too certain,
when I could bring myself, to draw them :
a crescent moon, hung stubborn, in the morning,
golden against the sky –
and loyally, it hung there ‘til lunchtime,
to remind me, that it
would remember, and keep,

the night.


Monday, 1 February 2016

If You Touch Me

   

Please,
go gentle, if you touch me,
today there’s too much to break,
don’t you see these cracks
crawling over
my face, like feathers,
all crumpled and slight? Go tender, if you touch me,
as though brushing starlight with your fingers,
and drawing it near, if you scold me, go quietly,
and whisper
for fear that I startle
too swiftly this day, though if your touch
offers safety,
I will want you;
...go careful,
but stay
    

and make this moment a shelter,
a home, a hide,
for I feel nought but a bird now,
so lost in dark night, and oh, so open,
to being eaten
alive, if you touch me,
say ‘precious’, say ‘shield’, for I give you all I beg,
all I borrow
and steal, that keeps me here,
in weakness, revealed,
with no lies to detect;
please,
if you touch me, say ‘encircle’,
say ‘protect’, and I’ll listen, and I promise
to believe;
   

please,
if you touch me,
don’t be too rough,
don’t pull me, don’t push me, don’t
…rush;
this air and this noise is already harsh enough
to bruise, and to batter
and scrape;
    

please, if you touch me,
just
lay
something like the truth on my skin:
that I am more than this moment;
this flaw;
   

that I am still everything.
    

Forgotten


There was thick
mud that day
as I slid, and slipped
my way, along the steep ravine to you;
as I did the things
that were asked of me,
that, right then, I did not want to do.
    

I looked upon the bottom
of a tree, roots entangled; an evergreen; a place that had always been to me,
a spot called clear to mind;
the place your dust rested,
in the shape of a cross,
in a year gone far behind.
    

I laid the roses
I didn’t want
to lay; and I said words I had not
prepared to say,
and I kissed my fingers in a dutiful way, and
pressed them
to the freezing ground. And then I turned around,
and climbed the sticky hill, shaking legs and an iron
will, not a tear nor a trace
would show.
     

And I walked away, triumphant; ready to go,
when a voice called out: ‘Not there…no.’
And it went on: ‘That’s not the place.
No, the ashes were never
spread that way. That wasn’t what they had to say…
you recall it all so 
wrong.’ And I tried to remember; even just which
song, was played the first
and last – and all I could hear
was the shattering of glass, as I realised each effort
drew a blank,
from the darkest corner of my mind.
    

I had no memories of any kind; it seemed all I’d known
were self-told lies, and today I cannot even find, the truth
about the colour
of the box
we laid you in.
But I think I remember
what you were wearing.
And I see lilies
and roses
when I close my eyes;
on the nights when I am lucky enough,
not to see
the moments
before you died. I remember those
the best.
    

I’m sorry…
I didn’t mean to.
I seem to have forgotten the rest.
   

Thursday, 30 April 2015

Tomorrow

   

Tomorrow I won’t visit
your piles
of white dust; though twisting guilt
will tell me I must, and I won’t
bring roses
or lilies to lay in the dust
at the closing hours
of a wet, spring day
you will spend,
like this one,
by my side, 
rushing and weaving
from the corners of my mind to encompass
my every breath, gouging and pulling at the
very depths of my power to forget
you, and I
a child again
will let you find me wherever I am.

And know one will know
you walk with me tomorrow,
heavy on my aching back,
an invisible,
curling, cloak of black tied chokingly tight.

Know one will know
how you’ll haunt me for nights, now
and the few days that lie ahead,

no one
will hear the words you once said,
but me, behind my time-warp smile,
every step ‘til you’re gone,
a tiny mile,
to conquer 
as I feel you stronger, 
more heavily, 
for a little while.