Earthweal, Solstice, Nadir and all the rest.
Fragments of neither one thing nor the other
When the fog is all,
the blanket that soaks the light not pearl, not silver, just the washings of dirty rags, there is neither night nor day.
There’s a moon there, but no one sees.
We stand in the entrance to the holy place, and winter chills the marrow, wrings the hands. Nothing;
no one sings or breathes at this balancing point.
Will you stay? I won’t ask, beg. You sip your drink, tap your foot out of time, and I know the answer.
All questions have the same source,
dip deep enough into the well, stir the salmon with hazelnut pelting, and listen to the ancient lisping—
on this night we topple into the winter cold,
the dark half not even half-over. I find your hand, fingers frozen, an owl calls, fox answers, the world turns.
the day is dark with rain
and the clouds hang low as crows caught among tangled tree branches, yet I still see green
where last night in the dark it seemed purple,
there is yellow at the heart, and still a scent of summer, honey, soft as
ash drifts in clouds from the dying fire
driven by the brisk sea wind, colour of mist and cold sky, it falls, a thin shroud on the waves
You said you would, but not while the nightingales sang in the long nights, and I believed you
then suddenly laughter,
and a small hand fishes out the lost best pebble from the stream. Look, the yellow veins, like honey.
Time fragments in a room
Time, you said, and slid out of bed.
I could feel the cold through the soles of your feet. I can always feel that shudder when you break the link and let in the world.
and then it fell, slid into a heap
of dead leaves raked against the trunk. I watched as you bagged it before the hornets, sleepy and only mildly irritated yet, decided to attack.
The postcard on my desk beckons
with its coloured blinds and drying washing, the racket I hear despite its silence, and in the distance, Il Vesuvio slumps like a blue and diaphanous slag heap.
Nothing paws the air like a cat
next to the stove, daring you to stroke its stomach. Combustion rumbles, red and hot, a train in waiting.
Dark the window behind the open shutter,
black the night meadow. We never shut it out not entirely. Night, meadow, the night stalkers, creep through the glass when we’re gone.
That stick behind my eyes
Like broken glass
Sharp and vicious
As the day they were made.
Beneath its spiral of froth
And your face
The absence in your eyes
Already thinking of something else.
Eyes fixed on the frothy spiral
And the closing door.
The happiness and the hurt
The awful waste of a love
Would drown me
In a sea of sorrow.