Saturday, 21 April 2012

The Shapes Of Things That Can't Be Seen

The weather girl had promised a gale and for once she was right. The house shook.
When he woke and heard the wind shaking the glass his first thought was a crazy one.

He climbs over her sleeping body. Feels around in the dark until his fingers touch
denim and leather.

The bones in his toes crack like pistol shots as he goes down the stairs.

Rain in the darkness.
Wind buffeting the trees.
The sound of these things.
Rain and wind on the skin.
The smell of rain, taste of the wind.
The shape of things that can’t be seen.

Mind you, it’s still dark now. Rain pulses on the black glass. Somewhere in sleep
he pictures that day in Glastonbury. It still measures up against everything that
he’s have been part of since.

Green-leaved, black-berried ivy spreads
in white rooms where the lights are all dead.

2 comments:

  1. the title is a poem in itself!

    great bit.

    ~robert

    ReplyDelete
  2. Again, thank you. I'd probably keep going without any encouragement, but feedback is always welcome. Best wishes to you, Jonathan.

    ReplyDelete

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