He looked up through the green tinted light towards the sky and began to drift

When darkness encroaches
And chaos and panic beckon
With long white fingers,
That is when I take up my pen

And lay thought upon word,
And word in book,
And book on heart.

These brief flashes
Of a light so pallid and grey
Die in the laugh tracks
Of a normalised life.

They aren’t who I am,
But they can begin to tell
Of who I long to be
Or who I dread to become.

Gently now for fear it might break

It has been many moons
Since love has tread
In the halls of my heart.

The tapestries on the walls
threadbare and muted.
The forgotten corpses of furniture
Shrouded in white,
Still as the dead.
The hearthstone lies cold and unused.

The dust is piled up like snow
In the deep of winter
Heaped in the corners and doorways.
The emptiness of the place
Hangs heavy in the air.
Stale and tired.

And yet

It would appear
A single window shutter has been opened.
The fragile morning light bleeds in.
And perhaps it might be possible
To make out the shape
Of a footprint or two
In the grime.

And it could be
That if you stood for a while
In the now-open doorway
You might even catch the faintest aroma
Of freshly picked lavender
And the earliest murmurs
Of a long awaited homecoming.

I’m carving a draydel out of cedar for you. All is right with the world.

Sometimes
I would like to live with you
In a wood cabin on a lake.
Lying awake at night
By an open fire
With your hand on my cheek,
In my hair,
On the back of my neck.

A Star of David
Hangs in the window.
A pine wreath on the front door.

The pop and crackle.
Your breath in my ear.
The wind at the chimney.

It wouldn’t be so bad.

I should be changing the sheets

The pillow
Where I have lain my head to rest
Is steeped deeply with you.
Your delicate scent but also
The slow curve of your cheek,
The gentle rise of your breath
And the lashes of your
Half
closed
eyes.

When I close mine I can almost feel
The the groove and judder
Of your spine beneath my fingertips,
Your feet, warm,
in the small of my back,
And the moisture
On your open, waiting lips.

Mignonne

When it comes to you
The words come rushing up
Bubbling so easily from below
Like natural springs of
Crisp, cool mountain water.

So many colours and images
Interweave in a myriad of shimmering symbols
From all the languages I have ever known.
Soft, delicate words.
Ferocious, powerful words.
Simple, sorrowful words.
Gentle, loving words.
Words I have never even heard.

Phrases clutter the back-passages
And corridors of my mind.
They slink about, beautiful and subtle,
With wry little smiles on their faces.
They shake hands with grinning similes,
High five the odd beaming metaphor.
They spin along in large open topped cars
Up and down the 6 lane highway
Between my head and my heart.

But none of them is ready.
Not one of them is quite
Perfect enough.
Not yet.
Not for you.

Zartbitter

On the train from Les Laumes,
Rushing backwards away from you,
I can feel my heart stretch out
Like elastic. The pull grows stronger.

We fly past lakes and highways.
The greens of a forest brush by.
Trills of your smile shimmer
In the window’s reflection.

I had been waiting for love.
Staying up nights expecting
A knock at the front door,
The hesitant mumble.

I had prepared slippers.
A favourite mug sitting ready
For a pair of gentle outstretched hands.

You push a strand of your
Peacock hair back over your ear
and laugh at my jokes.
You’re so beautifully quiet.

What I had learned of love’s face
I studied in flickering movie screens.
And what I knew of her devious ways
Only through the experience of others.

You smile and keep your mouth shut.

We may all wait for love
But we cannot wait forever.