It’s Saturday so I shuffled the magnets. All from one set again, the ‘poet’ set rather than the ‘original’. All I can say is that the oracle must have been at the mushrooms because I haven’t.
I remember how the flower
embraced the light
with a ferocious joy.
There is more poetry
in wet morning grass
than in this man of cold lips
and no laughter,
his secrets dark as his smile.
Ghost of a smile,
slow poison in your drink,
a word that hangs
in the air,
a perfume in the breeze,
then nothing but the dark.
From their breath
peace falls
in a many-coloured stream.
They are old,
but their magic is fire,
their laughter, a dark star,
shining in the night.
Fire haunts the night,
a cooling star,
slowly sailing the sky.
One word, and the universe
is less than a child’s picture,
a blue blush
on the belly of eternity.