Cherry picked salvationtablet from the mountin piecesshredded verse by verseand inspectedlike the bonesof a dead chickenin the marketon Saturday nightthe message lostin the shatteringone by oneof neighbours caughtin the malevolenceof…
We march forward one foot at a time,plodding towards the line that separatespresent from past tense,at times feeling the cold rain sluicingdown your back beneath your collar,until a wet nose…
Across the miles I feel youwatchinglower lip underbiting down hardand wondering…yes, I miss you…And in the spaces of timereserved for nothingI hear you callingpointingto where your hair streamslike a wave…
We are the scent of sunshine,drifting, soaring like butterflieso’er fields not yet mownto land upon an apple limboutstretched and hangingverdant with the nectar pommeneath cotton wool and cyan skythat stretches…
The song is blueocean wavescrashingagainst a topaz shore‘neath starsexplodingviolet – magenta – greenand rosebudsfluttertiny crimson heartstwistingin the breezebeneath his fingers and then… it ends. inky curtainsshut against the nightand tiny…
White wispsstruggle ‘neath navy capsas we honourthose who wear themin the wind and colda sea of poppiesat the eleventh hourstrewn on the tombof a young manwho never bouncedgrandchildrenon his knee.…
