My hands are black with hope
from living in the earth.
Soil snuck into my rinkles
of skin and mind
Memories. I am young
we are making cake
hands full of flour, sweet sugar
A separate chocolate bowl for me
Not much has changed really.
Still resist it.
Too slow to do what I should
too fast to quit when I shouldn’t
Leave me here
holding on
like we used to.
I remember
Clay drinks rain from the downs
like a sponge, till it flies
beneath our sleeping village
out to a common stream.
The bed is not it’s own
it only gives.
A being that lies not in the living
but in the honour of a life well lived.
It knows,
fate travels up and down its bends
only on occasion do the inspired young
have a go;
Waves break,
shapes form and flatten,
ripples open, deepen,
dive.
It doesn't last
a current too strong,
a word too loud,
a purpose.
No melancholy here.
Fresh rain from the hills comes
for ducks to wade,
fish riggle.
Jealousy? Envy? No.
Nor hope for a new way.
Love of place,
it knew all along.
A soft sun hovers upon white skin
soon to burn it of innocence.
Winter months went, untested, wilted,
now a fleshy wrinkle.
Like a bird of prey, claws bury to bone and round and up again
heat cooks the blood to boil, bubbles
rising like floating dead.
Without her knowing, the sun had murdered.
Into the shadows, it waits
I have come from hills
now buried in my mind.
I tread lightly
to preserve
this flat land
make peace
Fields of yellow rape
ripe with the sun.
Bunched crops sing
at a whisper
Sounds of a field,
breath upon wind,
voices whipping up
above thick hedgerow
I cross to a verge in shade
tweets peak, pitch squeezed
from a robins belly, paused
now holding height, hanging
The yellow towers don’t rest
stripping the sky’s light
for lift above the flat
-
Sometimes
when the day is
normal
In a
sequence of old
routine
we drift
Can I hold you,
one of your hands
just sit
My attention
not heart was
failing
You bare no fault
all along
it was me
Black tarmac streets run
drips on a mirror.
I hear noises.
Cars breaking
guls cracking
Big city
yet,
the pause.
I am lost
not alone
There is an old church god left
or maybe it was rich people
to feel less guilty
about their money
or their thoughts
I like this
louder, satisfying quiet.
Don’t miss the field
Got a square of green here
and structures of man
The white bone in my knuckle stabs through yellow skin, a leathery thin wafer, a winter coat layered from cold Pink, soon it will be, pink petals and quiet dancing fields of golden sun thawing me Fingers, soft to the joy of birth, the arrival of Birds, sun, songs. Endless I wait. My sour hand holds these days clenched before life opens
Present is the layer Above the ache that settled Without my permission With my knowledge I let it be Like a thorn in my hair it bedded A rot that Stopped This moment Light and crisp and open - time Green and wide Shared It’s not like the thoughts stop They come say hello Off again Don’t stick A self is here The witness to it all Just not batted Judged Space Inserts into The act of Being My Imagination plays Childlike Games Again The river Runs clear water I see Fish
1:15 could be 7 make no difference A mind is plastic I feel the top of it against my hairline Soft bits blood, love, out downwards into my frame full of it Like some rude mix of fright and highs Not really doing much just lying here dreams pooling Taking a breath see the dark usually don’t Out of my current soaking it Thinking out of my skull into the night
Purple pops from steel Colours of train and rain Bounce blue like my swollen Frostbitten sausage toes No tree this year It’s all I can think about As the numbness travels up the carriage Into my leg and consciousness Are we too late? Being slow? Feels like I’ve left something Not sure whether to go home For the keys We used to play this game Finding the big tree So big The boot would hang open I’d watch the road underneath The hazy white lines Green spikes In my pockets and shoes I could fit a big tree In this train Then I’d see the tracks Going by
