we drank stout
sombre colour of our suits
and heavy like the occasion
her fingers tapped the time-worn bar
– same wood as the coffin –
a subconscious morse code
trying to reach Elysium
an intimate farewell
sealed with frail teardrop
kisses.
Seeing the gentle quiver
of your smile
reminds me of
the ripples in the pond
when the first water lily
broke cover
fragile opaline petals
the curve of your lips.
Two Northern harvest-mice
with hawk-lit eyes
we slinked around London
from Kings Cross to Trafalgar
without hedgerow or hay to hide in
only plateaus and towers of grey
we had no map
so followed the route of bus stops
resting only a couple of times
trying not to inhale too much oil-slick air
smouldering under June’s sun
after the fifth wrong turn
tedium began to shriek
like car horns
but you smiled and said
“we’ll try around the next corner, you can’t get lost when you’re in love”
a composure in your voice
that buried the tumult
chaos collapsing
into
calm
we found ourselves on a busy London street.
I crawled into the carcass
of your scavenged legacy
stitched a cocoon from the carrion
of false epithets bestowed
on your name.
sepia-brittle and crumbling I clung
pupating in a squall of anger
until I sliced my way out
a katana soul-drawn
from the scabbard of my heart
a ronin now
banished for freeing myself
from the collective.
I carry our memories
in the whetstone
that tempers blade
exquisitely fatal.
This time
the climb felt easier
the incline didn’t seem to stretch for a year
my legs keeping feeling without force.
This time
my dewy eyes were due to a biting wind
rather than the noose of grief
that swallowed the air from my body
and the right words from my lips
like the last time.
And this time our hands held gentler
and it wasn’t to do with the new gloves
we are stronger now.
Boots sinking
we stood vigil
as our paper swans
glided across the lake
life
unravelling
with forms limp
we retreat
their final descents haunting.
At the mark of the golden hour
rays of low winter sunlight
descend from the sky
- like spectres
never quite touching solid ground
but always reaching
always reaching
finding frozen breath
thawing life.
The crescent moon
glinted like a scythe -
against the bruise-blue night sky
a celestial grim reaper
a witness to the dark things
grief ambushed me
like an owl in hunt
silently, savagely,
tearing my contentment
to shreds.
Like a squall of rabid jackals
clutching at downed prey
foaming furious waves crushed
into the cowing ebony rockface
so sinister and brutal the crush
that the nearby valleys of marram grass
bristled with every slamming smash
but the sky was glacial blue
and we felt tranquil
hands held gently as we walked
- the silence of sand underfoot.
I am the window pane
simultaneously introvert and extrovert
a shadow of an afterthought -
sometimes I’m caught in other’s refraction
they turn toward or
turn away
with a smile, with spite
or with sorrow.
Paul Writes Poems 