“Moonbeams, sadly, will not survive in a jar.”
Roger Mc Gough
Dark shadows will chase sunlight
from a windowsill. Rainbows
have no anchors and they float away
Fires consume dry grass, turn bush to ash.
Plucked flowers lose their petals one by one.
But stars, long dead can still shine on.
Their rays, far from their source speed through space
PORTRAIT IN THREAD
I look across my room to where
a new embroidered picture hangs,
a picture of a girl, dark-skinned, red-lipped
head held in tattooed hands.
laid down like painted brush-marks
show her sorrow.
Stitched into the cloth I see
the compass of her pain.
And I see
Another girl, blond head
bent over wooden frame. She holds
in delicate fingers a sharp shiny needle
and stabs into a canvas cloth
over and over again.