Friday, 20 December 2019

Flight of the Angel

Flight of the Angel

Pilot said I might not yet be used to a tossed step.
We plunged, borne by the storm’s wings, its biceps  

squeezing tight, pinching at my shoe horned heart,
pitching seats, diving steep. Descending flight’s arc,

face-punched with fistfuls of jagged Cornish hail,
wind-whipped by pistol force-eight cat o nine gales,

setting shields against slashed grit-rain, tight lipped,
gripped by sock thick deep pools of waste-watered pit.

Struggle did we? Oh, more than usual - bearing gifts
from East to West, smashed by tempests over cliffs

on impact course with all that was abandoned. Left
behind with sardonic sneer and black hearted jests,

bit by the backhandful of greasy fivers glibly given
to sweeten the pill. I refused the speech, unforgiven

still, and still rain hacks down upon olive crowns,
jagged rocks, swollen bellied grinding seas, towns

blink-glimpsed through thick shrouded shudders;
repel boarders, close curtains, where wary mothers

frock children back, snuff candles, wait. It will pass.
Draw my drowsy eyelids over them now, until, at last

cradle rocked, motion craft lulls false-minded sleep,
mesh-grey those visions intertwine, backwards creep,

blend; casting familiars, casting spells, casting faces
warm in love, giving gifts I didn’t buy from places

I’d not visited, waiting. Patient. Breezes run silk smiles
through angel dreams of giving me back that lost child

someplace nowhere returning to soft meadows long
where we’d shared secret love to plucked bass-song.

She’d given herself so many times, met every whim
I risked, double dared, quenched every shared sin

with Angel grin, kissed generous my soft sunned skin,
burnt herself by her own fire, her own fingers in,

pushed, stroked as bidded, rubbed and tasted
every photograph sent, every feeling lent, wasted

not one manic dream pixel. Now lying separate sated,
the spells once potent, incantations that were fated

to wither on the vine, no farewells, never no tears
shed, loathing instead; promised gifts of coming years

needed two to harvest fruit. But Christmas deals cards
in trust, my sky wracked ship, slung in between shards

of thundered surfing strife, shook summer dreaming
clattered descent, wheels rattled raw, now screaming

for haven. I prayed. Wished for some Angel’s flight
to kiss, forgive me and bear us safe home tonight.

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