Thursday, 23 August 2012

You Were Saying?

What then is to be said on this
evening where a plane trails through
the plentiful stars and we sit in
thin clothes becoming aware
that the season is drawing to a close? I stood
in the green and white light generated by
a burgundy and black traction engine the
belt powering the lights that illuminated
a piglet held like a baby in the crook
of the farmer's arm and the mucus snout
white haired pink body was offered to me
to touch causing smiles of delight from
the faces smiling down the night sky
making their hair look silvery against the
night sky it's the way the wheel turns, slows.
Stops as a pair of golden galleons sail
down a black river that flows through a
green field in the shadows of the slopes
where, so I have read, another fair took
place between the wars and the author
met with a woman and a child and in
that place received a premonition
that later turned out to be true.
Years later, in another country
there was a rusting rail set into
a concrete wall and I saw my first
lizard and there was no-one to tell
my keepers gone into a place beyond
my reach and even then I knew
delighted in the sensation
that some things could remain unsaid
not requiring any articulation
and though I've since tried
it's always, like a cold wind
following us home from a
Christmas church, stayed this way.


  1. I can't remember what I was saying, it can't have been important.

    Much more pleasurable is the long silence of contemplation this poem leaves in its wake.

    1. I can't imagine you ever saying anything unimportant.
      Thanks Tom, here in the wake of silence...



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