Beautiful

     

Beautiful shadows

fall at angles

that remind me

of you, leaning in close

under a pale, orange moon-cast glow,

on the boughs of the trees,

your whispers

were not so different

to the sound of their

leaves, growing spartan,

in the warm Autumn breeze,

fluttering like kisses

and enchanting heartbeats, against

ribs,

seeming broken,

as twigs, underfoot,

snapping, with pressure, and

weight; the same way something shattered

across your face

every time I called 

down

grace and prayed your name in

the still

of night;

filled your senses: your scent

and sight, enraptured,

until your iris

turned black,

deeper and softer

than the velvet back of a

silent

moth to a flame's leaping light,

burning with a gentle crackle, bright, in

crisp

and empty air;

late - a bonfire, a wood burner,

a taxi queue...

the hot smoke of your breath

in my hair. 

    

Not Beautiful

     

I, am not beautiful; not that way, not

to open my eyes and wake

to a day in yours; adored; every

part important

to the glory

of a sunrise, or the sinking of light in an azure sky.

My eyes,

are not, the thing

you watch 

the flames 

dance across,

nor the softness of my skin,

a cloak for you, against the autumn breeze - 

what you see, is not the glow 

of my soul, in those embers,

not the burning of my being in the 

crackle of the blackened

wood.

     

I, am not beautiful - though my 

heart is a rose, for you,

given,

ever-perfect,

crimson bloom;

you gaze upon it, in silence,

crush it,

and smell its perfume,

and turn away;

not exquisite enough, to stay

in your hands, 

or be called your own - only

a rose, 

that shrinks and depletes,

held dangerously close to the damaging

heat; that shrivels

with the searing 

of cold words and

averted eyes; 

    

still,

it struggles, in faith, to survive.

     

I, am not beautiful.

Will you notice, before it dies? 

   

The World Has Changed

    

I sit down to write it,

because if do not, capture 

how the sunlight streams so silently  

through the kitchen window

this morning; like all other things, 

all other moments - it will pass.

And it may not be forgotten,

or end; in the way some things cannot,

but be filed,

it will fade,

like the frost on distant roof slates,

and I must, 

for as I wash the cheeseboard

to the scent of wet pine,

and coffee;

an orange glow, rises,

over the hills and chimney pots, and the world

has changed:

minutely,

but resolutely,

(a blackbird calls his mate)

beautifully;

the world has changed. 

   

24.04.21 A Saturday Afternoon at Roche Abbey; Spring.

    

No great wonder, that a heart is buried here

for to steal a thousand,

would tax you none

rising arches of shimmering white, reach long

into whisping blue

still-silence is broken, not by you, and

the rushing, babbling waters of your veins;

but by those who yet remain, behind you,

in the aisles of time.

Bushels of corn, your transepts' lines,

prematurely terminate before the skies you once 

stretched 

to touch.

It is all to do now to dream and look at 

Heaven's umbrella,

once upon a vaulted cellar and 

a clerestory you tell

so well in ribs and bosses,

once upon more beautiful voices,

that filled your bare bones with song.

Long, 

now

since the points were set 

in stones;

since chapters were heard

and read, and the breaking of

bread graced your altars with devotional crumbs;

kissed today, by only the sun and steps 

of a shiny-backed

black beetle 

who is surely, running late...

You wait, as the afternoon's heat abates,

still shelter to offer and solace

to take, for those who will stay beneath

your arcades;

more pieces of hearts are buried;

shadows lengthen,

and time fades away. 

    

Laude

    

Oh, a pilgrim and a traveller, I

who's spirit leaps to, at last, lay eyes,

arms spread wide, under blessed skies of summer;

soul of great faith and the heart

of a lover - whirling dance

of barefoot passion,

lost in time's decaying cushion,

of lichen and winding 

wildflowers.

Where once was power, now

is nought,

but lessons learned and history taught

the Early English way;

the kind that all eats up a day in coffee,

and ice cream,

and toes in the grass,

and the quiet scratching

of a pen, on a page:

votive offerings to the hanging heat haze and 

scent of sun on stone; and skin.

Oh, this sinner's gaze drinks 

you in - and asks for no forgiveness;

for I will be guilty again of largess, where so I love,

with the flighted ease of a belfry dove

as I give,

in equal measure, I take;

the caress of my eye and pious grace 

in tracing curves

and lines.

Stay with me, at the altar; be mine, as sunlight 

dies away,

for you can have no concept, Saint,

among the lengthening shafts of gold,

how softly you encase,

and silently consume me, whole. 

    

Homeland

    

What countries ask of kings,

is rarely all the same,

re-population never to yours, the aim, of

any of those wild foreign games. In fact,

she wasn't sure 

she was unselfish enough

to plant seeds and tend, in any fresh plough.

Well now,

you supposed at her desires,

without any consultation as to what really

lit fires, and beacons, on her cliffs

and throne 

what it was that trully made you feel 

like home. Really she asked only,

that you stayed;

through her mists and temperate storms

that passed

just as eagerly as you wiggled your toes 

in her fresh spring grasses,

and moth-kissed her skin

on a summer's night.

      

You see, other countries 

might have demanded 

sight

of their future selves,

and a tiny crown,

in your eyes; but she;

was an island - 

an endless vacation,

yours to own, a tiny nation (of two),

for only the price 

of a heart,

and the holding of an equal hand; 

given over;

as a passport, a devoted citizen

of she,

your chosen homeland.   

Safe

    
I told you I thought sometimes,
perhaps you said words,
that only kept you safe? Ones you knew
I'd put away,
and cherish,
somewhere by my heart? Not the other-truth
I'd pick apart and offer to the
sky-gods, in your name?
Words that kept me believing,
the same, stone reasons,
of precious,
and grace?
I came to know your abashed
face: the one splashed across
with crimson innocence;
a cyclical dance - the one
that began
the whole thing;
    
let me put dead swallows
back
in their nests, and ghostly,
they will sing
of how they fell;
us as well; or you, or I,
sometime tellers
and believers of knights'
tales;
an unskilled spy
and the happiest girl in the world.
I only had to meet your
eyes,
and it was all an adventure,
all cherry pies and aeroplanes,
twinkling lights
and flayed-open veins;
raw, and honest;
and how could
I ever doubt it?
from the soul; what was?
what is,
without it?
   

Europa

     
You can take a piece
of my heart out
and bury it, in the African market
beneath the Eiffel Tower,
that had me,
at twelve years old,
tell the bells of Sacre Coeur
they toll for my stories
of summers
among wilderness ruins and stones and
silence me,
make me alone, with the sounds
of sea sloshing against
harbour walls,
minute fish in swathing shoals,
and the hiss of tanks carrying the calls
of strange birds
in olive trees,
the scent of dew-kissed hills,
wet sand,
whirring pedals on a midnight's breeze,
...my love,
and the moon
on a stick...
make me weak
at my knees and
ecstasy-sick with paella, gelato, and crepes,
soft glasses of sun-blessed
grapes under
barrel-vaulted & woven-vine bars,
foot-prints through my soul made under
endless, diamond stars, that weep
from a depth
of blue-black,
rushing kilometres of click-clack, the screech
of wheels-down on hot tarmac and
the hugs of 'coming home' -
not ground and borders,
but eyes and arms,
- mine, mine...whole, calm...
Go ahead. Take a piece of my heart,
bury it, when the snow falls
and the Glühwein flows,
...with eirini on my shoulders, it alone,
chooses the hand it holds...
and I need no permission
to love.
    

The Passion

    
Here's a long story,
a glorious rapture descending - 
vines creeping, into veins and blood,
foliate bosses and hood-moulds 
crenellating,
the doors to Narnia's portal. They left my finger
hopelessly trailing,
over,
time
immortal. The long shadow of a broken sceptre,
ground beneath:
the bone collector, shaft of dust,
through long windows thrown
lighting wildflowers impossibly grown from the
ruins of matins,
prime and nones, 
a mystery extant speaks of all
that is gone in the wind,
the rain:
in the unholy fires,
the crashing down of celestories and 
spires, and I wandered amongst them; their gritty texture,
whispering of lauds,
compline and vespers, a scratch in
the buttress, striking the time: eyes to heaven and glitter
falls down my spine, still, and the doves that call,
from the remnant of a crossing,
emboss my heart and spread wings in my chest - 
where once the vestments 
were plain,
I see a myriad of colours overlain:
as a pale hand in a silken glove.
And it was here, I recall, my head began to spin with it.
It was here
I fell 
in love. 
  

Between The Stars

 

It existed,

between the stars, they said,

empty,

and full

of not much,

void and simple,

time imprinted, at the end of ever

being.

It

was

unseeing, they claimed,

blind, and deaf, and dumb,

a lonely hole, unlit, un-speaking,

no mouth,

no ears,

no tongue.

But you and I, looked up through night,

and saw the stars were not selfish

with light, and the moon,

she was

more generous

still,

she shone across its vast expanse, as if she had

a room

to fill with glow, and gentle haze,

the whole world

of living could see,

and she seemed to cast a gaze,

a moment,

down, at you, and me, and all that space -  

through-out the blackness bright

 - what swam between

the stars,

was filled with love that night,

gentle, pale, and beautiful,

the whole world’s evening sight,

was a beckoning vision

cast by souls, beyond the chains

of life,

they moved between the stars

on beams,

of future and

forever, reminding us that

distance does not, negate being together in time

nor fast in truth,

no circumstance too much,

as they reached across dimensions,

and we stretched our fingers out to touch

them all

with tenderness,

and in unison,

exult and mourn,

ever glancing at the crimson of, the fast-encroaching

dawn;

a time we knew,

letting go was due, of visitors

from another place; a time we made

ourselves safe,

in a castle built of arms.

Wrapped in calm, tear-stained face to mine,

as they receded,

across the  livid sky;

you rested your weary head a time,

and I whispered:

“it was only a gift…”

And there, was born, a new morning,

on our soul-dance,

and a kiss.

    

Complaints Department

     

A very British apology, but I’m sorry,

you see, 
I wish to complain:

it’s about the way your lips insist

on pronouncing

my name; about the way that your tongue,

strokes, each sound,

and every letter

rolls around in your exquisite mouth;

the way it tingles my weakened spine, and the way your

coal-eyes, burn relentless, into mine,

I wish to protest about the loss of time, I suffer daily,

recalling your touch:

about the hours I recollect

your precious fingers,

exploring too much…no, too little - it affects concentration,

I chew on my lip,

walk the wrong way in the station,

smile at nothing,

ashamedly wistful,

hissing & whistle, unheard in my blissful, middle-distant haze;

missed train -

just gazing into memory and tasting your name

on my own tongue,

I swallow it down

eager and feverish,

impatience abounds –

I must get home to object to the sound

of your breath,

and your whispers,

that all loop in my mind,

the constant replay of your growls and your sighs,

…it is inconsiderate,

I think you will find,

to be in my dreams as I walk through the park:

I am not asleep,

it is not yet dark, and it seems now

I’ve forgotten the way – I object to these

enforced delusions all day – to reminders of you in a

scent or a sight, that steal my attention,

try as I might to work,

or to travel,

to hold conversation, when all I crave is satiation in

your arms,

and our own secret realm –

behind the front door, where everything melts,

and you wait,

as in a puddle,

I drip

my belongings, and a waterfall

of rain…

“Excuse me, sir,” I whisper,

“is the department for complaints?”

Homage

    

Sleep, Sire…I am a pillow

for you,

satin sheets,

warm,

and smooth as waters,

undisturbed by the breeze,

yet wild

of heart, like a nightingale, released from her bonds,

feathers,

all spread,

sleep, great king, my body

is a bed, for you,

and it longs

for your weight; pushing, swaying,

to undulate,

battles and campaigns are for

day-break, for when we have sun,

not these stars;

     

let my fingers caress your scars and ease

the aches

in your bones,

my lips are a silken cloth,

draped in your lap,

enthroned,

and wholly exposed,

my hair, is gold cords,
set,
at your hips,

my tongue a tender,

revering kiss, that brings its own

precious gift;

a great concerto that grows and lifts into heavenly,  

angel-song, the kind of worship that can never

be wrong;

  
in holy light,

I kneel

at your feet –

        

sleep, bold sir,

sleep, my hands in your hair, a crown,

come,

lay your hunger

down and a feast I will set

for your pleasure,

no silver to count

nor payment to measure, close your eyes,

and fall into

moonlight;

  
 
sleep, as I pay homage;

      

I came only to serve you, tonight.

    

Angustitus

   

Come closer,

lock bodies, nay stay, and lock minds,

every inch of you hidden,

a part I must find in my searching,

a sacred treasure hunt,

arms of memory – dulcedo - a blanket

of trust; nay but trust,

was a long-hunted thing,

you caressed and blessed and slapped with a

sting, and a scratch,

a deep bleeding wound,

on which you held pressure

and nursed me through, pains

of healing, stopped me picking

the scab,

pinned down my hands and pulled me back

by my hair;

not vicious, but kind,

tender;

rough enough;

my best things

in mind, you whispered,

ex animo

as we lay,

in the dark, trusting presence,

like I trusted

the stars above us to stay, 

and the strings in between,

and you, not to injure,

where the scars had been, but protect,

whenever they showed;

in mea bellator, under covers,

now gloriously,

exposed.

Creatures of the Night

   
Steal away in the dark, from their
watchful eyes, shining like cats' under the city lights,
lead me this way, in a wanton flight
of fancy
to a hidden place - anywhere they cannot 
look upon our faces 
and perchance may see,
the creatures of the night we escape 
to be,
entwined under beats
and strobes:

follow my breadcrumbs 
down a darkened road
then whip me back and forth
with well-deserved strokes, and sweet lashes, of my wicked 
sways,
catch me,
hold me,
as I writhe and shake,
bound pixie,
in this rhythmic heat,

I know you are starving, my  gentle beast,
whose teeth are a welcome 
pleasure, 
whose tongue is 
a sparkling trove of treasure, laid, but tender, on me:

come chew through my bonds 
and set me free: I offer my throat; I am yours to eat - dine
until you're satisfied:
Red Riding Hood sees the wolf in your eyes,
and she wants him
under her spell...

Taste her and rock her, 'til her heart shall swell,
like an ocean 
enticed by the moon:
and come the Witching Hour, let her be howling too. 

Reasons

    
-->

Sitting across,

you looked in my eyes,

wrote untrue words, drew

lines,

on me,

that I need to erase,

that warped our memories and

crushed

days and nights,

of knowing firmly, what I am,

in your mind, in your heart,

under your

mouth

and your hands

from someone precious,

and carried in your soul,

to someone who fills, gaps, alone,

not a constant

but an occasional thing;

feelings on, feelings off; like a

passing wasp’s sting that smarts,

intense for a while,

then fades and erodes

as a passionate smile between

those, I know,

light each others’

worlds; a momentary sparkle

of a diamond,

or a glint, of the pearl

I knew myself,

to be,

in your eyes,

until you were wearing this new

disguise that denies

all I felt, and yet see:

you are not, you are not,

what you’d have

me believe,

not just a taker, out to

deceive; who casts and reels

however he pleases for no reasons,

more,

than he can;

that is not the measure of

the man that sits now

carving his name

on my heart;

he does it

just the same

as at the very start; when I know,

I carved mine on his too,

and slowly thereafter, neither

one of us moved without

holding the other…

…cradling them,

in their chest,

each day;

veiled and undercover

to protect what ignites in a look,

or a touch;

not nothing, at all, but far too much

to define,

or ever describe –

something we cannot help

but keep hiding,

like a heart,

drawn quickly, in the sand:

of me,

of  you,

this is all I have ever believed;

the only reasons I understand.

The Last Rose

     
-->

She only wanted

to be loved like the last rose,

it wasn’t a lot to ask,

and she showed you exactly how

to love her; her present,

her future,

…her past,

it wasn’t any ability

that you lacked,

you were not incapable

of filling

unconventional cracks and the voids that she mentioned,

it was only that you didn’t

pay her enough attention, to learn all the

littlest things;

and so if you have never seen

her sing,

while she

cooks dinner,

never seen her spin around

and dance,

when she changes the sheets -

perhaps it is only

because you were asleep,

when she asked you to know her.

And if you wonder,

what she looks like

on a freedom-kissed beach,

or how strong she is whenever

she reaches,

the top,

of an arduous climb,

or what she wears,

indoors,

on a lazy,

Saturday night…if you don’t know her,

makeup-less,

with hair, tied, in a bun,

or soaked, and tanned, and wild,

under

a beating,

foreign sun,

perhaps it is because you never got done,

making her feel, like that

very,

last rose:

…most beautiful and cherished and plenty…to you,

being whichever ‘her’,

she chose.