Blossoming

Never now exhausted,
Love has blossomed forward,
Through an extreme of seasons,
One by one went by.

Spring’s within the Autumn,
Falls are once more roaring,
And those blossom-oils are pouring
Under pastel-orange skies.

Let’s go for a hairpin drive
To where your love resides,
Somewhere secluded in time
Beyond the woodland outside.

I’d rather a life in near-solitude!
For Nature is all-celebrating
While the cities are just enervating,
But only, love, in solitude with you.

October Dresses

I sat down alongside you
In the Church Of Just Getting By;
I placed my hand on your knee
Not born of ego, but to comfort,
Yes, from time to time.
I longed for the rains and ashes
Drained from an Autumn sky;
They stretch so far above Norfolk,
Where’s ending you and I.

I sat alongside purest love
In the Chapel Of Out-waited Time;
Love is not for tempering,
You moved my hand to your thigh.
I wanted to tell you a story
But words were stuck in my spine;
Life is only as good, my love,
As all we put before us,
Where fallacies will die.

Sometimes we seem to transmute
Thoughts between our minds;
The air is thinner, October dresses,
Your colours are divine.
Tortured by past events, memory
Can still yet retrace artefacts
In rooms which no longer exist.
Harassed by this inanity,
In your hopes I will reside.

The Measure

October rains;
I found a tape-measure
Underneath my pillow.
You placed it underneath
My dreams’ verses
Which revert to dramaturgic
Heathlands and dried,
Harvested high-hung wheat
In faded, yellow sheaves,
Kernels cradling hope
Like a jaundiced newborn
Baby in the arms
Of a nurse’s labours
Which are as wide as heaven,
As firm as a popular truth,
And that is the measure
Of how far our love
Endured and endeavoured
To find one another,
Over the thirteen seas
And under a gabled roof,
A pillow filled with straws
Which fall from the hearts
Of winnowing stars.

Lavender Weeps

There’s enough air
For everyone,
Even when breathing
Deeply, truly, at last
Inhaling, and yet,
Society compartmentalises,
Hides, keeps, rationalises,
Makes rarified that
Which meantime sleeps.

Waterfall of dreams,
My waterfalls have eyes;
Those without food today
Could have had food to survive.

Three ingredients create love:
Fuel, warmth, oxygen;
The same is true of life.
Those with power to sew
Are often caught with a knife.
There is nothing less above –
Lumber, pine, lavender weeps;
Less selfishness of mind,
And nothing else so deep.

Yttrium

You are my alpha thought and omega,
Calcium for my teeth and protein
Ever-present; you give me a range
Of autumnal rainbows crystallised
In feathery-eyes of a peacock,
(You were always so kind
To ignore my bad luck),
And then elemental energies
The Goddess of Love strove and mined
From underneath strands of yttrium
And promethium, from which the wish
To brush your hair was born,
And also the surf and shores of my poetry,
A perspective on my entreaties,
Crystalline quicksilver enchantress.

It is difficult for me to always talk so fondly;
My shell is broken, its browns and blacks
Like small tectonic jigsaw pieces scattered
As if brittle tessaras of scintillas on the lips
Of the bottom of the ocean.

For I am merely a mollusc in the mouths
Of old aggressive seagulls.
Raucous zealots! Pamphleteers
On roaring rolling coastal skies,
I am left up high with your touch
For just one moment,
Until dropped, my fleshy self gone,
A shell to join my dead brothers
For however long it takes
The fragile to be glued together,
Pierced with a pin, and put away
In the obscure drawers of a curator
Who was the last museum owner
To catalogue the vast extent
Of myths and wishes and sins.

Mausoleum

When you evaporated from
This godforsaken place,
Something inside me
Likewise quietly escaped
Through three brass valves

Which sound the bells
Of souls and fortune we
Sometimes take for granted.
The organ stops underfoot
Created calamitous notes,

Wooden pressures of self-respect
And a better taste for goodness
Evaporated also, and pews
And candles and last laments
Lost all colour and remnants

Of purpose, and the steel sutures
Became fused into my skeleton.
I walked on ravaged plains,
Desert heat transfering
Into my bones where roads

Once flooded with yellow pelatons,
Until that fated journey
To your mausoleum, built
In the old marble museum
Of my diminishing future.

Song Of The Sand

A grain of sand I did not own,
On a beach I did not know,
I kindled in my hand like sticks
Until it turned to blood and stone.
From stones there scattered
Seven pebbles, seven roots
Within the middle, and
From those roots did climb a devil;
And I did see there shoots of growth,
Of Time Above, and Life Below.

Skulldugerry and his mistress,
I have seen foul play;
A body in a brazier,
A human with no name.
They brushed their hair,
They drove to work,
Wedding planners,
Dividend perks;
We can only feel rain falling
When our eyes are blind as worms.

A bison-shaped cloud shifting
Dispersed the holiday crowds;
I was alone on the beach again
Wishing to breathe new life
Somehow, yes, through my hands,
But all that remained was the loss
Of the waves, and song of the sand.