On my way home

Perched on the edge of the sky,
The distance stretches out and distorts.
A rich purple,
A deep navy blue,
The blackest expanse above.

My head is heavy with you.
How the scarlet shall effect.
Your constellations are reduced.
Can I still trace them with the tips of my fingers? Will I still know my way?
How will I get you to reveal those teeth?
Mirrored by beautiful white cliffs perhaps?
Moher or less.

Below the cities of men stretch out
Gold and glittering
Like an expanse of gold chains.
I would scoop up a few if I could.
Take them home to you.
But more chains is the last thing you need.
You have enough of your own making.

These next few days will go slow.
Of that I am sure.

Heading Home from Home

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.

We talk about things that you can’t see

Your hands are soft.
Your fingers achingly so.
They lie silently,
Motionless on either side of a vision,
Comparable to Heine’s Rhineside portrait.
In my esteem at least.

A curious porcelain mask
That wafts in front of
My eyes and drags
My thoughts
Dangerously northward.

You are far.
And I will soon be further.
Thus is life it would seem.

One could be forgiven for assuming
That this would get easier.
Thank god it doesn’t.

And Zürich below us bathed in sulphurous flames

So much harder this time
Than even before
To leave you

And rise up through the
Late early summer air
Thick with watery pollens
In search of dulcet cow bells,
Hills and music.

Your scent
Heavy hanging
In my nostrils.
The ache of your skin
Has lodged itself in
The nail beds of my fingers
And the crevices
At the edges of my eyes.
And below.

The sky lit up in the distance,
Striking the ground
with silent hammer blows.
And I could see your face,
Lip bit and upturned
In the darkness,
Across the land
And across the sea
And across the night.

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.

Change taught us how to grow and grow we did…

The windows in all the houses
In which I have ever lived
Shine opal black in the moonlight.
Like giant dark eyelids closed
To an even darker night.

You have your fingers
In all of my eyes
Donating to my consciousness.
Your fingernails scrape
At the back of my throat.
They entangle themselves
In my vocal chords.

This wind is one of
Change and indifference.
It fills and drys the sheets
And pulls down the chimney
Stacks one by one.

As I drive home at night
I lose my face in the darkness.
The road markings shimmer and glow.
My head is full of the past,
My ears buzz with it.
My nose strong with its stench.
I pull into a darkened driveway,
Black as an open mouth at night.
I move off away into the sky
With not a single star in sight.

The Return Journey

Set a course through the heavens
in a white winged boat,
sorry, ‘yacht’,
and make sure to see
all the sights.

All those suns
with their fiery brilliance
and the patchwork quilt
of the constellations
long dead.

Pull anchor as close as you dare
to the black holes’ pull
into infinity,
before you set your sails
on the solar winds
for the edge of existence.

And when you’ve seen
all there is to see,
of the night sky
with all its twinkly little fairy lights
slowly going out, one by one,
make sure to come back
and have a cup of tea with me
and tell me all about it
with those lips and that tongue
and those eyes.