Songs of the Everyday

She leans over the bed darkly
as droplets of moisture gather and now
run down her ribs and under her belly
where they hang in suspense.
Today her skin is clear and chill
and stretches taught to the horizon
over bumps and curves and dips
of which I can see each detail.
The bell up on the hill is tolling seven.
I lie back in the bed and close my eyes,
breathe in deeply, and my lips and tongue
know that her breasts are goose-bumped
as her hard berry nipples
nourish me with things to come.


Morning glory

Songs of the Everyday

Outside there is a mist.
I’m hiding inside the duvet,
watching the little gauze curtain
swaying in the rising heat of the radiator.
I curl and uncurl my feet pleasurably.
You forget what a luxury a duvet is.
I know I need to get up and go out
into the mist to the hills which I can see now
only just through the bedroom window.
The light is coming up fast now
and soon it will be late.  So I must go
to where the worlds of night and day
collide and love and part in vapour.
With this small feat
I will begin my conquest.

The morning after


There is a certain lightness.
From absinthe’s vapours?
Or conversations with long-absent friends,
remembered scents and secret glances
at pretty freckles and forbidden skin?

Or could it be the leafy whirlpools
of a mild autumn’s day?

But still, a certain likeness –
a whispering of wanton lips,
that leaves behind in last night’s mist
a trail of my discarded burdens
and that imagined goodnight kiss.

– o –

November 2010-February 2011

What the morning wind brings

Songs of the Everyday

The morning wind blows fresh –
The minx,
In anticipation of a summer’s day,
Reaches up her fingers underneath my t-shirt,
And presses up against
Your red bikini top
Clinging on to goosebumped skin.

But whisper this!
With these seductions
She brings us news
Of distant welcomings,
And aromatics, sweet from northern lakes,
And silent mountains gesturing
For us to fall into their deep embrace.

But she has her reputation.
She brings us all of that,
But brings it all with such impetuous timing,
On fool’s gold ornaments
That speak of wanton needs,
And taunts us with the transparent greens
Of summers we will never see.

But we have done our crying.
We’ll tell the friends we leave
That it was never meant to be.
We’ll hold our mothers’ hands
And promise we will not let go
Until they’re sleeping.
And for the rest there will be no goodbyes
For we will see them at the water’s side.

– 0 –

Summer 2010