From Ultramarine December
Letters and explanations in the post flown from windy corners of the earth to stagnate on my mantle piece. Morning comes with light, bright, flickers the odd leaf still waving briefly on boned branch, roads are empty children scouting newly won trophies and I’m alone with the beating of my heart. Shock of the new, shock of the old year rumbles to it’s toes monotonous grey by day images of you on me and the beating of a fragile wing within my body.
When coming home is never the same as going away, when a day can make the difference of a lifetime, all urgency disappears, water to clouds to drop once more on misted windows. You’ve an urgency to capture a lifetime in an hour, leaving bruised membrane, blood, exhaustion as deep as a last breath, all I can do is give in or run. Distance holds no hostages, the glitter of a sequin from the night before, sweat dried to salt.
We journeyed through the woods lashed to a Roman road straight to horizon, a wonderland of hung sky, pheasants and small red deer browsing the yellowed grass, windmills and miles upon miles of flat fields to a scudded sea. We talked once more of love and life, those that’d left , and us, the left behind, ate Christmas lunch in a lorry park. Everything flowed with ease passing one to the other, an unseen tapestry where reality ceased to be and again we whirled and spun in the event horizon of eternity. Dinner was like the first , brown eyes across a table divulging secrets, gentleness the theme. Later lying on separate beds :
My heart is a darkroom
you pass through it
black and white images
I cut you into size
and paste a collage.
My dreams are of flying over rivers, Missouri rivers deep green flecked with tangled weeds, I stare into the water and see nothing. You are the other side of me you leave me calm and healed.
I become a seed
blown by an unseen wind.
I turn to you and listen to the riddle, only the waves make no noise as they slap the flat shingle, passers by stare at us;
we whittle the air
into spirals of incense.
Burning wind on my skin, take a brush to brush you with, you a fawn covered in gold downed hair.
The voice is the carrier of the soul
all those stars branded across Milky way.
How many heavens can we see tonight? Lying on my back with the sea at my feet watching the domed amphitheatre of gas that is this planet. In my dreams I walk the tawned leafed woods, where children play.
It is an end and a beginning you ask for.