autumn
within the sarni that is autumn closed
upon a filling of winter née summer sliced
relish this last hot harvest in turning falling
leaves upon a humus in a smile upon
mile upon mile as the north creeps down
with a wind that will cut us to the bone
the meat is cold and hung and stored
standing in a tear frozen to this spot and iced
until hope is all we can ever in never own
fence posts
the rings of life are squared
and weathered here where
the fields posts are sledged edges
barbed wire and the do not enter signs
but of course we do
putting up our own one finger sign
always the squeezing what could have been
into what has been
is
tenby
and so the coloured evening
rolls down to the harbour
slowly bobbing in anticipation
the blue sky harkens to the shore
warm music meals the sleepy town
as night arrives and dusk boards
the dawn cruiser moon-wards
blackening hearts until Tenby
shines its true colours
mindless mendacity of senseless graffiti
saying nothing in its genericity
and yet and yet
this universal voice must be screaming
something at something
surely
although i am growing quietly old,
even i
feel an uprising rising and i mumble
‘count me in’
shouting
‘COUNT ME IN’
ekphrasis
from the painting comes a life
laying into the painting lies a life
oscillating in my understanding
for a decision never landing
i decide to fall for it all
and half-love all of it
but still the wind howls
then we found that the stigmata
were just red pearled candle wax
churched in a mild to moderate pain
the resurrection hoped for
in dark times
for
in dark times
hope will drink blood if
the night will just lighten
just lighten for a second
but then again
you know it does not make sense
that it makes sense
and still the wind howls
no
