Tuesday, March 17, 2015

Random small bits


Your Crying

 
Your crying:
The silver streams
Of your eyes,
The radiant red cheeks,
The choking on words,
The gullish. 

Somehow
I think of a voice
Curling up
From inside a hollow oak.

…………………………………………………………..…………………………….

 

We were a fire;

only our sparks

had direction.

 

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The Viewing.


Dead: the colour of old cream,
his eyes shuttered shut;
so neat, be-suited and slim,
weight he lost dying. 
 

They made a basket of his fingers
with a rosary spilling down;
everyone said he looked lovely
but when I touched his face,
it wasn’t him at all.

……………………………………………………………………………..…..........………

Seeing through this patterned pane
your face,
whole but distorted
like our love.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Beacon lights' eccentric twitches
electrocute the night;
a lighthouse beam swimming round
swallows them in flight.

 

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