hiding in the gap
where childhood and adulthood
are steep sided cliffs
in this deep valley
this numinous fantasy
they drink, sleep and love
but as summer ends
the valley’s shadows grow long
and most of them leave
Writer
hiding in the gap
where childhood and adulthood
are steep sided cliffs
in this deep valley
this numinous fantasy
they drink, sleep and love
but as summer ends
the valley’s shadows grow long
and most of them leave
Last night you told me.
Reality twisted and fell,
snagging on a hope.
Today, I replay
an infinite zoetrope,
and search for mistakes.
Yet in the flickers,
memory lights a story
too painful to hear.
dropping to earth
a bumblebee’s stumbling flight
I trace its progress
searching the crash site
dragging its dusty ruin
unable to fly
so gently I place
three spots of liquid honey
and watch its curled tongue
slipping under trees
the shadows flee our lanterns
hide, wait and quiver
we speak raucous verse
shrieking untamed poetry
until we are spent
leaving the others
escaping discordant light
I listen to the woods
blood flecks the grasses
ancient mewls and bitter cries
as they chase the hunt
bugles call their pride
as the sun lowers her head
in a shared mute shame
running panting breaths
flit under the ancient beech
into the woodland’s heart
light steps on concrete
cracked and stained by the ocean
rusting bones revealed
we scream in delight
as the surge slams and searches
throwing brine skyward
and sucking pebbles
and chip wrappers and seaweed
the grey wave recedes
we drink stolen wine
hidden, by the riverside
unkissed lips stained red
dreams and lies whisper
drift between the bullrush stems
raise up our nape hairs
and the moon watches
bears witness to transgression
pours silver linings
soft fingers hang blame
perfumed flowers overripe
a rotting garland
and she accepts it
eyes scratching the horizon
face, granite set
the scent lingers long
a trace of reminiscence
she tries to forget
the aching seafront
winters rusting erosion
and empty silence
sunlight on the pier
slats shadows on sandy grit
across hidden skin
holding cold fingers
you turn and recite poems
washed up driftwood words
a lone butterfly
snatched by an easterly wind
emerged too early
I watch it struggle
flash of powdery colour
blurring luminous
it leaves a slight trace
a light flicker of feeling
an itch of regret