Behind her back some of the village wags
call her The Black Widow
The Light speaks and coruscate through the walls
Moment affixes the pages of some old dreams
Memories won’t adhere well to the surface
When time battening down the shutters
and nature speaks to me quietly
There’s ever the reasons
I did see some bison
Cause they did not let them
Kill them off ‘sthough they just
Clay pigeons in a row
E’en though Robert Taylor
Were in one such movie
The last …
I receive a little package
The other day
With some trepidation
I opened it up and…
Out popped Worse
Every sunset is a kind of death,
but time and again that golden orb rises
I look at you
But not quite
Some how familiar
Of a confidence
That is born
From an inner knowing.
The night, of late, is nothing but a blank;
no dreams are surfacing on break of day.
In the fabric of her
Thus creating a space
For the possibility
Colour and light
e’en prefer the head before the shampoo to the one after with all that straight drawn out long taut like stretched on wreckl…..!
I think back to life in the city;
a caul of nostalgia drops lightly onto my shoulders
as I remember the electric excitement
She gives other
Sung for all that
They are the
Still think that post game
Penalty goal shots err ’sthough
The deepest night is contemplation’s only refuge;
by then my mind, incapable of rest, whirls,
spinning like a planet thrown from orbit.
I let go the idea of
Stars like fairy dust fall.
I look down and realize
My body’s internal
Clock remains in the
Land of dreams. It is that
Which has stopped.
Quirky and sublime
Mistress of the heavens
Of our hearts.