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 trees suggest
to me of dancers.
Weaving their brittled bones,
skilful on the breeze of winter’s
Supple indications, shaping
and shedding – sapping
the act of soon to be springtime’s
From such rugged growth to
sway of draping bodies bowed
No cries of encore –
No plaudits please, screech their moans
stricken they, amid
breaking limbs of woe:
Left now for wasted all –
dying in the unkind cold…
Poppy Jan 2017~xx~
Where we tread – seldom sees the
sun of summers now abbreviated days.
Blackberries un-ripenened mass, on mass
as through the scumbled leaves – she skips
innocence still playful about her lips.
She finger flicks the plentiful untouched fruit
scratches running arms length
delicate pink, across her tender
We stop, catching the richly spiced
choral woodland sound.
She stops to look
wanting to ask – before I place a finger
softly against her mouth.
I sense she understands
with her eyes now wide, mourning
this, the passing of her childlike
As she – the girl
who once was:
had suddenly became me…
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
in their morning wraith-like haze.
Amid your twisted sinews, I am most graciously calmed
while pristine elaborate skies; ground
my oath, steadfastly to you
Kissed in passing by all manner of such gracile splendour
flower heads sweeping stately, in their lightness of touch.
Reflecting deep –
of the imagery that scurries the waters edge
asking of no permission, to stand still this day
draped in adult perfection – floating on a child’s eye;
of far flung surrealist imagination.