Monday, February 8, 2016

Two poems

“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
to reach us as we stand here in the night,
hold hands and look up at the sky


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.
Coloured threads
laid down like painted brush-marks
show her sorrow.
Stitched into the cloth I see
exquisitely expressed,
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.

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