When rain falls a (grey) veil
from a sombre sky
where no (light) strikes sparks
of fire from poppy (and) rose
(I sink) to the level of mud and sodden grass
poke fingers (in) the loosening clay
to feel life (writhing) beneath
and deeper still
the fiery (veins of) the earth’s (blood)
Cold seeds salamander-coddled
need (no hope) in tomorrow
to burst (in) green sappy stalks
leaf and flower-furled.
fire calls to fire and the tides shift moon-struck.
Between fire and (falling) rain I wait
with the patience of a seed
for the wheel to turn to sunburst.
Painting by Evelyn de Morgan
Though I pull the sheets of night about me,
nothing stops the (waking),
the ending of dreams,
the fall in(to the) glare of day.
The spool slips,
and the (slow) motion of the stars ceases.
No (butter)-light can sooth the loss,
soften the (slide) from the floating free (of) darkness
to the brash, brittle chains of (sunlight)
that scratch a bitter reality (through) dream space,
(painted) all the colours of the stars.
No (trees) bending in a subtle wind
changes the (knowing) that my feet are rooted to the earth
and I can no longer find the path that winds about the moon.
No (clouds) pinned cotton-soft on a blue canvas
(are) worth the (waiting) for sleep
(and the) swallowing of the (pitiless) sun
by the sacred (night).
Another all-in-one cleave-style poem.
Scent of pine and cicadas singing,
(you) always say (are) summer’s essence,
with winter (gone)
in a cascade of open blossom
(and) unfurled leaf.
These moments beneath (a) throbbing sky,
we keep for when the (north) rolls down,
as it will,
these memories of soft west (wind)
that (blows) gentle over city hills.
We walk (through) gardens
scented with thyme and origano
as sun sets,
colour of (the) desert beyond the sea,
our arms, once (empty), full
of flowers to bedeck the (halls) and windows
(of) this place where I have made (my) home
and given my (heart).