Wednesday, 11 November 2015

1 New Poem


It’s one smooth motion of skin upon itself,
one glancing slip of colours complimentary,
Ceylonese oil portraits of grassland greenery,
of tea in Edwardian china we could have
a drink upon in sunray restraint;
all that and becalmed spirits still.

It’s fumbled in half-words, trapped braveries
that are forever tongue-tied lightness,
forever careful Catholic’s starched lip,
forever kindled warmth of hearth,
but I could picture Mitchell songs with you,
I could dream of Merchant-Ivory productions.

It’s all but key-turns, tumbling
silver hairpins, click-click stick
of laptop combinations; we don’t connect,
we spin coin dance of Moroccan tabletops
glinting in moonshine strength, lapping
repeat of water on graceless sand.

No comments:

Post a Comment