Sunday, 20 September 2015

Western Tesserae



1870 
and the twitch 
of a dry grass stem 
gets etched 
on the memory

the broken edges of the day 
tethered to a ghost 
with the turning 
of a badge oak moon
as the snapped-back sheriff 
shoots 
straight from the shoulder
in a midnight 
no-man 
no-man’s-land.

Trouble. Trouble 
rides thru the horse 
his hoofs 
placed 
on perfect stones
broken 
chalk flowers 
with black/white stems 
and the smoulder 
of fallen 
fish bone 
x-ray 
leaves


Stops 
to drink a brew 
from the star bottles 
packed with the glint 
of mirrors 
and pearls 
from a sunken 
blue saloon.



I might get run out of town or lay a ghost to rest forever
deliberate choice in words, selection from the colour box 
of tone
although 
I did at least 
make you smile.

Little to go on, 
no forthcoming lines 
tethered to obvious hooks

each time his eyes travel 
through the constellations 
he was met with the stones 
the silence of forestations.


Clouds silt the silent streams.


Stairs woven from whispers descend, 
white at the edges 
as if dipped in snow
the places for your feet to follow
shrouded in gloom

blue light radiates 
thru silent glass flowers.

Clouds cover the red phone in the oak leaves
the only way now
to send the pieces
across the miles
into the Old Country

even though I know 
you don’t even live there anymore.





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