A teacher’s cupboard,
My thumbs whiten in compression,
Thumbed textbooks,
Must and dust and fusty thoughts,
Forgotten.
Footsteps pause in darkened halls,
Amidst the smell of linoleum cleaners and sneakers.
I hear voices call, plaintive and clear;
Echoing off displays,
Reaching under doorways.
They promise forgiveness,
Offer exoneration and redemption.
Yet I know my sins,
Know myself,
So I bite my tongue and hide.
Author: John Everex
A writer, reader and cautious optimist.
Point
We stopped by a field.
The echoes of our opinions outlast the engine’s.
Silence slips in stealing the sounds.
I stare out the side:
Straw stubble ploughed,
Furrows leading away,
Linear perspective,
Vanishing.
A distant horizon.
“What’s the point?” I nearly say,
But I hold my breath,
Instead.
Escape
a screech owl’s promise
my footsteps muffled and tight
tentative freedom
you watch, framed in light
your curled hair catching static
shadow-etched skin lines
I pause, clasp my hands
the night’s call is forgotten
cast aside in guilt
Moor
a break in the clouds
cerulean blue, Payne’s grey
a flash of heaven
we climb the hillside
watch distant rainstorms drifting
cold fingers in palms
shelter under granite
blue-dyed wool caught on dead gorse
rain hisses and sighs
Night Walk
I curse the mirror
castigate my reflection
close my ageing eyes
a clock ticks downstairs
outside, gulls shriek in the night
my footsteps unsure
I pour soya milk
the refrigerator churns
its voice lamenting
Tree
scratching hollow eyes
we follow the falling leaves
stained and mottled wings
you collect them after
picking them with pale fingers
you shake with the cold
I touch the bare trunk
grey wood twisting like old skin
dead limbs entreating
Hay
orange dust falling
motes catch on golden angles
dance into darkness
a scent of haybales
you absently play with twine
twist it like your hair
you break the silence
I watch the brief frown furrow
and know the meaning
Saturday Rain
hesitant at first
the drops tap out a message
whisper reminders
closing my sore eyes
I pursue the rhythm’s beat
follow lines of sense
and the birds attend
translating and composing
a soft counterpoint
Night Garden
a darkened garden
unfamiliar sound casts
deepening shadows
searching in the pall
I find a faint melody
an uncertain tone
it stutters and stops
and I clutch mint and rosemary
the fragrance a balm
River
we follow the sound
early morning riverbank
dew wets our sneakers
I dreamed of fingers
holding and curling and limp
bitter to the touch
she stops under trees
willows weeping coiling leaves
we hold trembling hands
