There is no one who can touch me
beyond my feelings, for that sleepless
red, gigantic moon.
Our love was not of art, metered
in verse, or painted in scenes that coloured
the watchful eye.
I will you, take flight –
not to return; taken by those suspect winds
that blow the chills through
No complaining – no intentions ever meant
no smiles, no voiceless regrets, now
long solitary reviving those times
on so many counted ifs!
You called me – your autumn
glazed in tones of fertile gold.
I replied, that autumn, always she comes to die
leaving those who once did touch her
brittle cold – buried deep as snow…
The clouds suck in –
The wind, soaring its passage
venting her untamed
bleak of moorland self destruction.
How bends and nods the cotton grass
flimsy in their slight fluffed bobble hats.
Hunched reduced, against this their
barren back drop of existence.
The sun put to bed – long before her
face she aired –
Dreary this place of home
where the sound of faceless
moorland birds, split
to open, the deadening rush of winter’s
the fading heather beds
like purple pitted bruises
still with a view
to catch the seldom wanderers eye.
Home calls the final residing guests
as to their wings they beat in flight
far – far away.
Broken back of moons half light –
Of dog fox barks, and owls that
screech the tongue of fear in man.
So, we shall withdraw
waiting on spring – hopeful on the arrival
of old friends made.
Deep regrets in those extended sighs,
for the acceptance of many
that we know,
we will never greet again…
When it is my time to leave
how much of myself shall I take?
Lighter the head of memories
or heavy the suitcase filled of relics stacked.
Do I go in autumn just before
the winter storms
lay barren my North, bearing
down amid the gloomy leaf less trees.
Or should I choose
spring just before the summer
when orange blossom still prevails
the early morning air.
Such is this weak annihilation of mine
observed through eyes now blocked to light.
When all, but a slender residue of calm,
and you might cry:
for knowing that I’ll not return
We walk – apart
as autumn blusters her calling pipes.
Red berries huddle the Holly trees
their arms out stretched before them
No symmetry –
No sound –
We stand – apart
dead as elms
our words slowly resonating calm.
I need to lick the doubt from your eyes
sow new my pledge of spring.
It is no effort to want your love
allowing your perfume to strike my lungs.
See how the apple red, still clings in hope
for to fall would damage, its tender skin.
Is there a beginning in this, our end?
You answer –
turning to leave me – alone…
Poppy October 6th 2013 ~xx~