Tuesday, 4 August 2020

#216 - three poems - the one pointed star, everyday foretelling, the harbour


5.viii.20

216

three poems

 

the one pointed star

 

a glimmer twink

sideways seen

 

a ladder in the dance

fall here

 

it throws us

wished to bits

 

river run to stone

go gleam

 

‘explosive revelation’

I should say not an easy ending

 

to heights of leaf as feature

where cloud is all to nothing

 

this far years of light still go

 

worm away

run your own rug

believe an angel sent

come late to colour

 

no one thought it up

nevertheless

good for flag for instance

 

would you call this shining?

no point to it at all

 

 








 

an everyday foretelling

 

we will speak to each other

not on paper

neither in stone

but through the empty air

as if the sky were grip of midst

before us on a table

 

hear you hear me

feel my meaning

there when not

 

it will be a regular way

our only time together

 

day begins for so many

with a tune remembered

or shock of night telling

 

likewise in air

from nowhere to nothing

and gone

 

breathing yet

 

cruel truth

lost to crueller lies

 

time comes when no one will touch

not again

even the voice will be covered

 

all the city’s hum go low

fearful each of animal, insect

too small to see our fears

 

enlarge upon them

days untell

 

stall the machine

on stumble unknowing

into what will come

 

here we are

you and I all it with

still the eyes will hold

 








splendid to harbour

 

and under bridge it

cobweb rusting

cranes and towers

still on up

 

foreshore walks

slosh green

sky for an eye

gull with

ark

 

once was a little paradise

by stream in idle hours

bay flew fish

 

but love is up with our old tricks

turn islands by

shoot stars

 

a harbour has its streets too

they are in conversation

 

smell of clouds

through the heads

no one sees disperse

 

wheeling and surge beside

 

even a grey day

float in the glass

sail tilt

trick the hills to tree

 

come coves in spire sandstone

cliff tide told

slow to crag

hawser, chug

and throw a dock for rope

 

there must be a dark floor

to the harbour

weedswept

dreamt down

sunk to be

 

where stars turn over

 

some bright creature

lives to love there

so there will be more

 

 

 


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