Poetry  -  Love




Beckoning from our future
she haunts me
with knowledge
of what has already been.

A soft glance falling
like a petal
into the bud of tomorrow.

The compass needles point
and spin;
as two tracks cross
beyond the sun
she comes to me.



She slides in softness
through his hands
and satin of her dress
around her waist.
Hair falling,
she kisses;
all the length
of her legs
curling down.




What can be said
to the broken edge of steel,
a wind-ripped curtain or
the flesh that aches?
There is only the space
between words,
numbers rising like leaves,
never joined:
An old man and woman
sitting hand in hand
knowing the touch of their fingers
is all.



I have hung myself up
on the thorn hedge
of our imagined wants;

and soon you will join me,
lying back on the thorns,
pinned, but appearing at ease.

Habit is the butcher bird
collecting careless creatures
to orbit on the spines
as if it was their only choice
to spin and whir
and break their wings
and finally lie still.

So will we ache to fly again,
to feel the rushing grass
and eye of hawk or owl;

or simply wait for the known end,
struggling more slowly
as the hedge thickens?