The sky is purple
and a bird is singing like dawn
A streetlight is lit
The air smells wet
and birds are singing like dawn
The sky ahead is the colour of water
a dirty torrent obscuring the horizon
To the right, a lead blue evening
To the left, the colour of blueberry yoghurt
Can you see him?
Lurking olive green like a straight striped stick
revealed by his olive green soul
and cocked tail.
A late summer swelling sky
of angled admirals
and memories ringing like thousands of tiny bells.
Secret pools in the last weeks of a lifetime
lazing carp shadowing the shallows
Glurping in the rain
The night smell of wheat
baked to sweet dust
would remain unsmelt, were I not here.
Moisture and sweat, in stasis
And volatile tarmac greys
Resinous and steady
With cut conifer oils
Drying in the darkness
Charcoal smudges cross the surface,
blurred amoebas floating over the half mown lawn.
The first geese casting shadows of autumn.
Thinking vaguely of formation
an aimless lost honk points them this way
Then five in jagged arc together
Steering with duck billed mutterings
crashing through arboreal gulleys
they carry heavy speed
lifting with whistling wingtips
And the trees sigh
As they pass by
Impatient for them to leave
Goodbye little house under the stars
and flashing planes
I spent the dawn through
out here, listening for the chorus.
I made a garden here,
now arching over the path in pinnate peering melliferous luxuriance.
What happened to those loves
who passed through me here?
Where the windowless shed shelters under iris and corn cockle,
in a dumbfounded gap toothed stare
back toward the dark empty lifeless
But emptiness erupts
Like shedding a weight and rising to the top
A life flashing through me as I rise
And memories pour out
like a burst paddling pool
greening the parched grass.
Why should I save you?
This mayfly, flapping and wriggling like a fish of the air
made of lacework and tarnished copper,
in a web.
Why deprive a spider of rare taste:
this tiny dragon semi bound
by wing to frantic antennae,
crumpled by tenacious silk?
The finest thread of iron glue holds
as you struggle in fragile futility.
I can break the chain with a fine stem,
teasing from your delicacy
and you flicker up like a mechanical jewel
and into your short future.
Why have I saved you?