I woke early, and wept on a dream. Of other springs that occupied everything. At last the dawn came. With a sun, veiled in grey mist. But cool, as your sweet lips
How gentle our eyes met. Ocean wide, and beautiful. My dreams are now fertile. Eyes open, breath held and losing ourselves. A wave has struck, over and over. As if all pleasure, was physical
Spring still comes up thick with the dead. Grey sky awaits a mighty upheaval. With a drum-roll, from an ancient battle. The blind judges and blind jury, no longer see the flower on a single face. Only the words of the earth will survive, as a witness.
When a blizzard falls, sometimes the mirror shatters. The sounds that blow down your streets, become as bleak as the Manchester Moors. It’s all I can do to lift my eyelids. But I walk from wall to wall. Ugly feet, walking over the floor. Until, I find you by a window- as the spring rain falls. Where would the earth be, without you and me.
The fresh morning air. So sweet I turn, towards this world of struggle. Longing for you, and kisses from the days. I start the day. With no breath to part us.
The blue sticks to my hand, as the sky fills. Even though my poems are blood-clotted. A thousand million rains, cannot take this away. Seared into my soul, these single minded snares.
Shapes of corpses. How black they look, against the gentle sun. A lone shade touches them, overcome and weeping. Of all the ways to die. Coffee cups melted too.
Around the streets, the thinnest wake. And the windflowers plead to be alone. Everyone, suddenly sighs. A new day has come, and it does not rain. The sobs change, the earth doesn’t dare. Life and paradise become one.
There is always a small betrayal of the mind. A wash of paint, that seems to hold the secret. But there are always genial poets, presenting their droplets of language. Smeared with mud, and flecks of ash. Prepared, to ask the stars why the magpie swirls And their snug encasement is strained.
Every night a screaming siren. A crimson sky of blazing phosphor. Outside, a wren makes her nest. Over blackened rubble and cold bodies. Still waiting for the new world order.
A Wandering Poet 