I Sometimes Feel Your Touch Still

A vacuum droned in the distance,
Unending summer pain,
You were bathing in sunlight,
I was the last to complain.

I wondered how we arrived here,
Eyes white as Siberian beaches;
Your painted toes playfully circled
My devotion, rhapsodies in peach.

You caught the sun in your shoulders,
A helping hand beneath straps;
I left my work in its folder,
Lawn mowers loud as thunder claps.

The water butt was empty,
Evaporated hearts there cried;
I sometimes feel your touch still,
Though many years have died.

About A Thief, Part 2

Sunlight lets itself in again
Like a looter returning stealthily,
Plundering scenes of his origin
With neither shame nor learning.

He’s stolen colour from books
And he’s kept off the hook
The collusion of night;
The detectives don’t know

Which way they should look.
Do not misinterpret
The softness of his touch
On shelves and tills and locks,

For his expertise has not deserted
His faculties for profit and loss,
No matter how much the thrill
Of lovers restored and love long lost,

For what does he give in return
Once the daily raid is over,
But the same old worn excuses
And the knowledge of dust, and rot.

Twelve Minutes (Eighth Sonnet)

The time for sunlight to reach my old desk
Finds all people equal, cursed and the blessed;
The time for blood in my dreaming arm clots
Is your favourite song in twelve bar knots.
Our time to choose stairs, or elevator,
To views of Rome where many years later
Alone I returned, with my bag of regrets;
The time stays silent, with words never said.
The time for walking towards my gallows,
And judges drowned in red-rising shallows;
The time of pens to write a brief letter,
Gifts to a friend you have feeling better;
The time we lost for a bomb to explode
Should be time re-wired, to write this new ode.