From ”Ultramarine” October diary

Full circle

monochrome skies

driving rain

hung immobile

on Libra’s scales.

…………………………………………………………………………………………

Now.

Mother, daughter, mother, we wander in wonder scuffed markets searching tissue treasures. Around us the crowds eat spiced food on paper plates, and undulate before you. “Why is everyone staring at me Mum”, because you’re so beautiful because you are a hallowed creation of the universe. Pale skin, luminous eyes black rimmed powerful aquiline symmetry of your face.   We wear our scars lightly, memorise our memories with ease, laugh at the holocaust we are spawned from.  You have an intense confidence, I am your backbone, both our backs are broken, we’ve both fallen.  Life passes in cameo, whistles, like an old French movie.  We talk of men, and I am clueless.

………………………………………………………………………………………….

Back then.

Rain falls with the sound of heartbeats on walnut trees, on sand in the courtyard making flurried patterns like a river bed.  The children sleep, beyond my window the hills run into more hills and the tournesol   lies brown and broken, after harvest debris.  Days have their own momentum flushed with the needs of animals, animal needs, to eat, to sleep, to shelter from the driving rain and when spring comes to procreate in the image I have dreamed for them, matching chestnut to grey, high crested neck to proud tail and the lines of lineage that trace back to the Bedouin, my horses, my creations.  In the market sellers shiver, “les noix!!”, the cries of halkers ; huge lorries trundle sacks of  walnuts collected under a blustery sky.   Red faced tourists long gone, the English stalwarts of French village life gather in the cafes drinking coffee and cognac at eleven in the morning.  You and I are braced in our mediocrity as married couples do until one breaks through.  The builders mutter as I pass, you’re engrossed in oil paints painting my body ,painting my face on a huge canvas, I mutter as I pass you, talk to the rain, talk to the animals ,talk to the children, but we have nothing to say, you’re immersed  in deception without knowing it, and I’m burning with a formless anger that gnaws like an anorexic’s hunger I sing it to the forest, wrap it in frozen dreams of escape, am tied to monogamy with a rats tail.

 

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

Our bed

is a crucifix

bevelled wood

suspended

above a void.

 

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