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Something That The Wind Blew In

TS InscapePosted by Graham Thompson Sat, January 09, 2016 19:15:40

Star on the Mast

A star sails into harbour

On the yule-tree

On the mast

Of the old tug

Longing for repair



The Light Is Going

The light is going

way over the copse,

it shrinks from the ploughed

gullies and blackbird runs

between the hawthorn,

gilding still the leftover

harvest straw, the elm tops

threading the November dusk

with stripped and lonely lifelines.

Old man, old woman,

two lightning blasted trunks

await their final rest,

like an old couple

in God's golden funeral parlour.

Only the old railway

holds a claim on tomorrow;

all else is nature's slow sleep,

turning its nose into the cold

pillow of night

and the longer stillness,

which is ours for the watching


Something That The Wind Blew In

Something that the wind blew in

Through that midnight banging door

Sets my heart to wandering

Wraps my thought in fur

Vacant lots on city streets

Lonely pines on moors

Telephones ringing in empty flats

Minds that talk with walls

Yesterday’s unfinished washing up

Beachballs left in dunes

Jigsaws and wine almost spilt

Coffins in front rooms

Connections between bus and train

Timetables and accounts

All add up to the same

Nothing was destined to meet

It was by chance we came this way

Chance when we shall leave

The only certainty’s in our reason

Or spells cast in the dark


Little Farms

We are like strangers living here

As if from distant planets flung

Falling separately to little farms

Where contact tentatively

Is made

Eventually

Cross fields & border hedges

The outstretched arms

Reach blindly for the tips

Of fingers searching back


It Floods

Kick the dust:

Stub-toed and obvious

The iron and the rust

Pokes me.

Black faces in the sun

Run to meet me;

Sour eyed, respectfully I turn

Away. I

see no blood

On the trees, they are green

And I am hungry.

It floods,

Sometimes, this dust, into my

Head. The people excite me,

They belong without ties;

No goodbyes

Or "hope you have a nice trip".

They simply turn away

And are gone before you've even

Packed.

Maybe one day I will

Follow them.

But no,

It never floods

Enough.



Change

A gold diamond reflection

Has been robbed of its brilliance,

For today, early and scuffling,

The lights have changed. The almost

Orange plays no more its gaudy theme.

The waters ripple under much cruel

And crude description.

The cold saliva brushes past the days

And catches my tongue between

Two definitions. But sharper

Are my thoughts, not hurried

In uncomfortable salt of sweat,

But freezing harder onto

This prime-evil life.


Underways

A dance of criss-crossing curves:

Branches in the wood

Dead elms leer out of the eaten bark

Myriad paths of beetles mark their underways

Faces of frogs and children in the leaves

Interwoven in the light wind

Parting and joining through the lowering sun

Old couples go mad in the children's playground

Roundly edit the merry go round

And make a last exit from the swings of heaven

The gold flash of the

Dead soldier's helmet

We are all legionnaires in the woods

Of subtle and self-mystifying desires

We are all young old dead

In receipt of life's greed


Chemistry

The chemistry of the moon

Is still alive and living through

This grey matter, the ghost shiver,

The twitching dog dance,

The unweavable play of feet,

The welcome combusting engine roar

Of car come home,

The fucking combined bodied suck

Of lovers' domes,

The poet's tongue.


Paris Wakes

Under Helen's dark eyes

we are all slaves of the love promise

crystalized in that low-cut glance

and I was stabbed by the moonlight

flashes through dead branches

knives hurtled into night's

soon forsaken black sleep

the words of dead lovers

in the extinct river lights

a city telegraph

for yearning eyes and ears

over the sighs of bridges

the enemies of sleep still walk

but me I retrace moon-steps

into my lost one's arms

and Paris wakes

in the sewers' puke

and waves of new sun`s ashes

brushing cold skin air

Paris wakes

but Helen is not there


Stowed

Do these words have a place

On the page before they are stowed?

Do they already have a mast in your mind?

For is not all that is done

A voyage of ports

Wherein place is sorted in time.












Fill in only if you are not real





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