Communion

Rain within rain within rainfall,
As snow that once thawed
Within picturesque scenes
In a bauble unbroken
In cold winter dreams,
Inside a teardrop forests find,
A teardrop containing final skies
And faint heartbeat.

No more the fish,
No more the season,
An old empty dish
Devoid of all reason.
The rain became snow,
Water to ice,
Reverse upward cats
And dogs within mice;
Umbrellas my friends and
The looseness of frogs,
All it takes for an ending
Is to lift up the fog.

Exile

Bereavements are eternal,
Curdled in blood;
Uncured, diurnal,
Bereft by time’s flood.
Each one is complex,

As sure and unique
As rings we keep hidden
In petrified trees,
Felled through our forests
Of fossilised dreams.

And when bereft,
The grief is unending;
Truth’s sinking incisors
Deride all impressions,
Like scars from a moth

Made marks from her teeth;
The moth is a moment
Where your love in exile
My fate made complete.
Although these events

Have long since deceased,
Like an arrowhead
Truly, poison-dipped,
Buried in muscle
Or abscessed knee

Conditions our gait,
Makes hobbled hopes weak.
Mine is the kind
You’ll seldom see,
The grief for my child

Alive without me.
Therefore we are haunted
And also the ghosts,
For life left us daunted
And tied to our posts.

Amethyst

I miss those frosty mornings,
Snowfall on a ridge;
Icicles on the awnings,
Amethyst laps the bridge.

I’m not for city dwelling,
My heart is with my love;
But she resides in times gone by
While half a soul’s above.

And so I miss those winters,
For winters warm as this;
Where we walked a lakeside path,
And found a moment’s bliss.

Little Mjölnir

A hammer I found
On a tall mound of earth,

Only man-made,
So little like Thor’s.

I swung it at mountains
Of old washing up,

I heaved through the trees
Of ancestors lost.

The townspeople laughed
As I toiled and I huffed,

Its handle unvarnished,
Its corners were scuffed.

Look at him missing,
They sang and they coughed,

But they couldn’t see
The meaning of moths,

Shattered my ego,
Departing the docks.

The Coast Of Shrouds

I prefer heavy rain
As rain keeps me grounded;
A shipwreck submerged,
A ghost keeps its counsel.
Crowds too kept at bay,
A drowning skiff is confounded.

I lost all I loved back then,
And all I would love forever,
Is it surprising to know
I could not imagine life
And thoughts within it.
Thoughts like skittish clouds
On the coast of shrouds
As unseen suns diminish.

Thirteenth Sonnet

We’re as fixed as anything else in heaven,
You can’t use douters on black holes or stars;
Why try placing Cornwall east of Devon,
We’re constant as Phobos orbiting Mars.
No end to hearings heard by eleven
Coroner cloud-gods in black cortège cars;
Bones have feelings, and our bread will leaven,
Our teeth cut with stuff from atomised scars.
See these bones, barely ossified rocks,
Set in their place by the Goddess of Clocks,
Ligaments moulded millennial rocks;
Even space can’t contain these lost aftershocks.
When leaving life to imagining death
We demean depth from our one daily breath.

Damage

The damage in you
Transfused
In to damage in me,
I tried to escape
But with all the wrong keys
On my wrist, those tools
Warped in to convoluted tubes
With familial glues filled,
So I fumbled and tripped,
Fell in to the sea,
Just as you fell
Just before me.

This, my children,
You will write about me;
You’ll see strangers in photos
Yet know how they leave.
Decisions long lost
In the thickening mist,
Abandoned our trawlers
To shellfish and rust
Like a ghost’s fingertips,
Difficult to defend,
Impossible to resist
Between the curve of the earth
So high and blue it’s absurd,
And a sandy lane’s dust,
Simple and deceptive as
A molten ring, a goodnight touch,
There is so little remaining
Between what’s left of us.

In another dimension I dreamt
Of coins falling from the sky.
I woke up the next morning
To find eight on my eyes.

Find your own way,
On yourself now depend;
Feed your soul on life’s poems,
Pull the tubes from descendents
With nothing left to lend, or give,
Hear my words echo through:
Resist, resist, resist.

A Dose Of Gothic, Part 2

I looked at my pillow,
My pillow turned red;
I called a physician,
He said it’s your stress.
Your pillow was white
As a ghost in a bed,
If I’m not mistaken
Your ghost has since bled.
The ghost of your sanity,
Do not be misled,
She called out profanities
When shot on the bedspread;
Then the ghost of your pride
Who ate her own legs,
And the incumbent bride
Without any flesh
Or corporeal content
On shoulders so slender
Bereft of her head;
Is it no wonder
Your pillow is red.

I gripped the night-doctor,
Foreboding fuelled dread;
I shook him for sense
As he cut off the phone line,
My voice and mouth wed.
I washed the case for a week and a day;
The more I washed, the redder betrayed
Like a Sun on Blood Moon or
Bald eagle days, I lost myself
To a dark disarray. They found me,
The officers, odd notebooks in hand,
With the doctor beside me,
His gunsmoke criss-crossing
This smouldering land,
My blood turned to white,
My last soul unmanned.