Story

The arch-light at the end of the view

from my door is

weather-bitten, with mossed steps,

beneath the thumbprint of moon

(the stone, in the fruit

of the afternoon).

Sideways I glance,

over the hedge;

there, spring has hit,

and apple-tree, honeysuckle

and lacquered gate,

preen idly.

 

I remembered the last time,

your hands closing both of mine,

as we stretched time to infinity,

playing at hearts and crosses

down in the cove with sand,

salt, rock, worn soles, wreckage.

Taking home the timber,

laying on the ground.

The film now wrapped, my mind

an open fire,

where I've piled the remains, and

the dusk sun burns

my eyes to cinders;

the children from next door come,

to root eager

through the debris.

◄ Ebbing

The Romantic ►

Comments

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David Blake

Sun 11th Feb 2018 16:29

Cheers guys. I've just realised that the first couple of lines make absolutely no sense but huh, never mind!

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raypool

Mon 15th Jan 2018 16:20

Nice twists in this David. I love: my mind an open fire etc. A great mix of scene and emotion.

Ray

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keith jeffries

Mon 15th Jan 2018 09:34

David, this poem has the ability to take the reader straight into the scene then to ponder. Thank you for this. Keith

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Douglas MacGowan

Mon 15th Jan 2018 00:13

This poem has a lot of different emotions that come through it very well. Nice visual imagery, too. I like the plants that "preen."

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