Standing at the concrete wall
At the lookout spot at the top of the Conor Pass,
Your hair a mess of copper wires
Caught by the wind,
You remarked on the
Shadows of the clouds
Moving across the sky and
Blocking out the sunlight.
I like to think that you were the sunlight.
But does that make me the clouds?
Were we the wind?
Is now the shadows?
As I trudge along to the stop
Suitcase in tow,
The broken wheel scraping the
Icy concrete footpath,
Your almost-incredulous,
Crooked little smile sits
Right in the edge of my vision.
Blurred ever so slightly
Like the webs of ice
On the leaves above my head.
So early, cold and quiet.
Even the birds know better
Than to greet this half morning.
I wish I was in bed
With you
Under four layers of blankets.
Cocooned.
Toes touching….
I pull my hat down tight
And hand the driver my ticket.
11 more hours.
The wind tells me when to leave.
It howls obliquely
And I close my eyes.
It’s a strange fact
but it is the hands that I fear yet again;
The pleading golden ones
Waving in the gale
Or your gently distorted hooks
Twisted around my own.
My eyes are black with thought.
Your skin, the feathers of swans.
Seven of them,
Necks all curled like thumbs,
Beaks like swollen yellowed fingernails.
I pull at the skin around my mouth
And it comes away in my hand
Like sheafs of paper.
Leaflets about fear,
About melanoma,
schizophrenia and depression.
I offer you a cup of my love
And you sip at it politely,
Making jokes about Parkinson’s
And the the shivering of my fingers
All about your face.
Wandering home,
Along Westland Row,
My fingers firmly pocketed,
Hood up over my
Festively red cheeks,
Puffing away like
The old steam train
From Hollyhead to Kingstown,
Each breath hung
Deathly still
In the air ahead of me
Before being cleft in two
By my nose and the
Rest of my face.
And suddenly,
It began to snow
And I cast my eyes skyward
As the drunks began singing
Some old Christmas song.
“Why did you make me
Walk so far. You said the
Bus stop was closer. And
Now my feet hurt and my
Back a bit too. And my fingers
Are too cold and my head is
Too warm. Silly thing”
But secretly,
I liked walking you to your
Midnight busstop,
Through the cold corners
Of this town,
Even if we’re not in love.
Cos I don’t feel like a gentleman
Not nearly enough, not to mention
A plain ol’ human being.
And besides,
On the walk home
Alone along the canal,
With its sound sleeping ducks
And its floating armadas
Of forgotten goods,
I can think what I’m
Going to say to a
Pair of bright blue eyes
That I’ve been dreaming of
For a while now.
Long black waves
beat at the rocks
With their grey white cusps
Foaming and angry.
Behind the thick glass
Of the train window,
Stung with rain,
And inside my dark hood
I sit safe in the
Eye of the storm.
So
While the wind moans
And trys vehemently to
Blow out all the candles
We lit last night in the
Garden and our inebriated state,
I dream desperately
Of freckles and fingertips.
What to do
with a single yellow rose
if you have no one
to give it to?
©BRussell
Your eyes are roses.
All that red blossoms and grows.
The long green stems stretch back far,
curling through the gaps in your skull
and out your nasal passages.
The thorns that stick in my hands
are long and sharp and matted
with the blood of those
that have come before.
Your teeth flash
black and green.
Your smile sickens.
I reflect on how I am
somewhat a gardener,
as I prune back the bitterness.
Your hair is a tangle of weeds
which I delicately remove,
my hands growing red and
itchy with their juices.
Your roots are thick and strong.
They stretch deep. The problem is
you’ve implanted yourself
in the shadow of a great
weeping willow on the
darker side of the garden.
Beside a wall that limits and abuses.
You need to be brought out
into the sun of summer days,
I intend to relocate you to a
nice spot, beside the chrysanthemums
and my well kept lawn,
in the warmer part of the
garden and my heart.
Your open lips I have
encountered of a night
when, dulled and nulled
by phosphorous light,
we may have danced.
I cannot be sure
for eyes were blinded,
memory poor.
I entered this dream
like a room without door,
the ceiling all stars
and a blackened wood floor.
A small gentle mouse
with some grays in his coat
breathed his last gentle breath
and opened his throat.
And I knew then that life
would be always like this:
that the ones you had loved
would be the ones you would miss.
So i steeled myself
to the darkened abyss
and settled my soul
in your warm, twisted kiss.
With all the world
buzzing and twirling around
beneath a complacent sky
while I lie,
summer skinned,
the cool breeze
blowing gently
on my stubborn nipples.
Agitation of hands. Strength of words. 