Tuesday, 4 August 2015

1 New Poem

Take That Waltz
It is the rosewater left untaken
off-wave tone of blinking midnight clocks
in musty hotel rooms, beaten in blinkered
cross-eye stance

for unspooling rooms, could be
drank in darkly as Tudor beam
ceilings a party conference decision tables,

ever-weighting between blinded scales
and lost in years as all.

Still, you stain,
port dark, wine deep:

the wish to have taken up some sport
of gentlemen's hours, drivers at dusk
across coattail creases, distraction in
letterhead pitches, in grinding peacetime.

In hours entranced by garden trestle vines,
shuttering possible pasts behind doorsteps' flutter,

it is ever the better a dance to take.

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