Summer Layers

Specifics

It's a toothpaste brand and the precise time of day

the exact shade and colour of a stranger's hat

the plaster wrapped around your finger

the absence of teeth

the hollow screeching of a train on the tracks

the crunch of an apple, the afterwards slurp

memories left over from summer

the strawberry smell of cheap jam

the dainty sad simplicity of your grandmother's kitchen

the stubborn dirt beneath your toenails

a spider's shadow on the walls of your childhood

the bags of exhaustion that lay heavy under-eye

the tight waistband of your jeans

the glint of copper wire in a frayed connection

bits of grapeseed in your gums

a scar the size of Jupiter

the scribble of a fountain-pen from some distant dream

bald-headed men

a pot-belly marked with pubic hair

the smell of a public bathroom as you pour white on white

the clear liquid left behind from cheese

the note of a killer detected in a lover's voice

the passing seconds as you wait for a yes

the stark stark absence of your father

a misshapen thigh spilling over a plastic chair

the need and disgust that trip over each other

the loss of self

as they all blur to one.

___________________________________

I Muse

Angles of light appear differently now

the twee whisper of summer makes the room seem smaller

re-arranges objects.

Rays caught on edges

dust on the window sparkling

sun rising over the hill

edging up past rocks

echoes of a dog bark

farmer's voices

cars speeding off

birds twittering

and the profound silence beneath

the morning rhythms

of life in the country.

I dare to dream about walking over the tops

huddling under slate shelters as it rains

or browning my skin in the sun

in company.

How things turn around (and how they don't)

and how I have let myself dangle on a string

with my mouth open wide as bait.

I invite romance and comfort and beautiful still settings.

This magic place

lambs bleat, throats quavering,

tongue vibrating like the bell on a church tower

stairs creak, wooden frames stretching with the change of temperature

each word

is a vessel.

I channel some sort of luck, or in other words diversion,

so many times I have entered a stranger's car.

Oh yes life is beautiful

I am just discovering the sweet gentle underside

of the vibrant buzzing truth.

___________________________________

Screaming in the Present

White-wine sauces

and red-wine reductions.

Dark chocolate eaten like an ancient remedy.

Wind combing through a barley field.

Days spent on the internet

scrolling, to where, to endless depths.

Please please please my darling

make each action deliberate

do not find yourself gorged out and bloated

at a train station, alone,

with no transport and a hand scarred

with too much action.

One morning you embrace in bed

and it is very certain he means it

and it is very true and unavoidable

and he looks at you shocked

with an open mouth

and you throw in penny sweets.

Sparkly wallpaper

and stuck-on words.

These worlds I inhabit.

- Yes I do like to shine

out of context -

Lambs bleat

and I hear myself.

I am not in an echo chamber,

I am screaming in the present.

The sound comes out like the rush-roar

of a waterfall

and we swim in the pool of endless time

of fleeting eternity

and its mother,

the forest.