newts and sticklebacks
ahh
the three-spined stickleback
in the jam jar of my childhood
the newts under the muddied stones
in memory’s quarry
we walked and talked didn’t we
we collected spotted memories
it was great fun
i recall it all
like the soil
under the fingernails
of this poem
written just in time
the sky is as blue as the gorse is yellow
the yellowest yellowest blue
the bluest bluest yellow
and the butter of the sun paths
to the sea to the sea
kimberley wrote a line
first it settled here
then it settled there
her butterfly words
touched all the flowers
in the gardens of my mind
closure of the gulf
the waters broke
and then closed over
after the meteor fell
the scar was deep and raw
they will find it one day
embedded in a gasp
so that was it they will say
in the winter of a soul
one sunbeam talks dust
and that has settled it
once and for all
unopened mic
like the evangelist
megaphoning a street corner
i pontificate my poetry
as they rush past
unopened books in their fists
i say it as i seize it
if they don’t seize it
then so be it
it doesn’t make it less me
it makes it less them
but what can one do
but pontificate
for no one else will
sweet …
now where are they
so long ago
so long ago
they are here somewhere
they are here somewhere
have another cup
i’ll find them
i’ll find them
they must be here somewhere
i’ll ask the other half
… nothings
