Little thighs pull her eyes and he
is the twinkle in the calendar.
The smooth powdery hollow
under her black skirt furled back separates lands.
Tears swell from beyond the ultimate invention.
And he rises.
Gone is the dark
closing ponderably slow like an old calendar.
Lay some common sense;
if the same suggests rain drowns sight under mist,
distorts from the hypnotic state that is the sea
too small to expose his desires.
But for the day, if what shall receive — thus to play.
The wind no longer returns to long forgotten designs.
No-one speaks now the mountain streams cascade.
A revolution of the Laws of tea!
I use its cheery flame to dispel the lights
now I'm considering suicide.
© Gerald England
Composed: Gee Cross, 22nd July 1992
1999 In Posse Review (Internet)
Flowers at Fleetwood
2 months ago