If I open my eyes
Outside the sun
Will sluice away from them
Like water from the deck of a ship.
This morning you accused me
Of making too much toast.
I hung my head, guilty
Of your previous accusations.
Outside the sun hoisted up
And burning hugely in a cold sky:
The bus wheezes and shuffles it's feet,
Turns me this way and that
Like a bored photographer.
Silence in the kitchen, silence behind me:
Dim awareness of the morning light
Flaring across the tabletop,
The two half-empty coffee cups,
The pot of jam translucently red
Likea jellied heart in a glass
II
I'll bring you out here, to where the cliffs
Pretend a lethal drop
But harbour little playroom of themselves
Beneath the lip.
Scrambling down
The thrift and saphire shrug and dip,
Virgin to sight:posession
Of a persistent live
Has brought them through the rip
And preoccupied the whinny
Of the conquering wind.
I will not point out the lesson.
The boulders sleep likelichened seals.
The gleeful water ferries back and forth.
By David Sergeant via Pen Pusher Magazine vol 15
Sent from my iPhone
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