Poems
The Swan and the Boy
Silk swan’s necks entwined
Like heavenly rope on bodies
of gliding white around a smooth
glass lake that beckons all.
His head lay still as if listening
To each hum of a murmuring bird
Caught in the snare of flight.
His head lay still as the grey-green
washed over his face, ivory white.
Now grey, now blue with cold
and fright, lay still as ice. His
head on that water, till hot hands
gripped the edge and pulled him back
To the bank
And grey sludge gurgled from
an open mouth. And putrified mud
left his lungs. The boy was back, from
the edge. From swans that swam to
the sound of a gurgling bird and a boy
left his lungs. The boy was back, from
the edge. From silken necks that turned and
twisted. From swans that swam to
the sound of a gurgling bird and a boy.
Brighton Rock
Crash almighty foaming tide against sunbaked paths.
Free like horses from land’s furthest point, in tempest blue
and grey. Perfect, into the mouth of cascading surf and sand.
Frill-less sky, smoke pinched, frayed with pearl.
Hurling white against the rocks, chipping, filing, spitting shale.
Distant black, smoke stacked, a silhouette of a Titan blown harsh
against time, tide, and deep regret.
A full and imperfect shell of a man left open. A red dot so far back it caught my eye, anchored there, swollen with a one-armed bandit spinning wide, bringing hope to her bright green eye.
Sculptured bronze hit by a boat.
Leather-legged and storm-rocked.
Bitten by fire, lost to the shock.
A charcoal ghost, dressed in smudged smoke and frost.
