One word.
One sentence.
The hatching of silence,
and matching the colours.
Then the hidden secrets,
a cascade of words.

Autumn winds whisper,
as leaves fall.
Wafer thin in copper bronze.
Each one, my fallen ghost –
kissing my blue eyes.
I still remember,
the farewell song
and sash of tears.
A stripped cold feeling,
as death patiently waits.

In thinness and dreams,
I know this place.
See how the trees
no longer fill with colour.
And there is no wilderness,
rich and deep enough –
to serve the wolfish tempers.
I wear the present itch
for love and dignity.
Before the bed,
and not the knife.
Only the fringe is left,
I can touch it, sometimes.
But, we are always found wanting.
And my concerns
are more personal.
And as luminous
as a blue magpie,
echoing , echoing – love, love.
The couldron of a new morning.

My thoughts still cling
to the smoldering past.
No one standing between us,
only the plum rain.
Love and lust,
and water that glistens.
Rain has never
been more beautiful.
The feel of nature,
shadowing us into the night.

Summer comes
for an hour.
And then two.
I soak up the warmth.
Beating above
our loving silence.

Catching along the
roadside, paper
thin blossoms.
Bit by bit, I see
a small way out.

To a blue day,
and a blushing night.
Your kisses, my anchor.
Your hands, practicing on me.
As if, I was made from you.

I raise the mirror of my life.
Under the cobalt blue sky.
And see magpies in the pines.
The way all the world should travel.
A carefree birdsong, echoing
the last of the summer wine.

I remember you,
our hands travelling
and my thirst burning.

Leaning into the
late afternoon.
I send you my blues eyes.

A flash like my soul,
and my lips to follow.
Most awesome in the
cooler season.

I sit down on a bench
by the river wei.
Sun glinting on the
freezing water.
This is the place to be,
silence.
Where the first words
of love emerge.
Down jasmine wings,
and one by one –
they want to slip in.
And they do.
Everything now,
for the day – is complete.

The room is quite,
I am feeling it even more.
They call me a teacher.
The slum lards
call me something else.
I don’t suite their
jubilant histrionics.
But I am a teacher.
I take the globe and
toss it in the air.
To make meaning,
or something.
And don’t tell me the
dog ate your homework.
There are always
consequences.
I am a teacher.
 

Though I heard
we all end up
on this road.
It’s still miserable
to imagine the end.
So today, I choose
not be a relic.
And will go to see you,
in the summer field.
My mind is clear
on this.