Sunday, 21 June 2020

November


November



Oh, I like walking in the dark, it’s mysterious,
Mr Chesterton. Gnarled bent roots pushing up,
soaking hard mud with swelling rain, ripe veins
mole-bore darkling tunnels, ripping into crust.


I’m always lush day-dreaming, it’s so exciting,
beats in temptation, blood rush me quicksilver
thunderstorming my bastille, breaching my hill
in wolf-scent, clawing earth and shatter chains.


Lay me down on beds of late scarlet pimpernel
nests, take breath, rest me on pressing oceans
of sweeping dusk gold autumn brown grasses,
bubble in gentle shapes. Now we’ll flash floods,


lie back in exotic alphabets, melting in X and Y
under pinking sky. Hooks and eyes part and fly
so swiftly; helped by our hands, wave goodbye
to restraint, chuck away good intent; whispers


nothings nonsense, goose shivers, quickening
until the fruit, red-ripe and wind-fallen, oozes
tart juice on the fingers, touch to our tongues,
open and peeling the flimsy lace skin, now feel


how time is nothing real pressed inside, warm
ferments our sipped sweet ciders shared, drunk
corked then sleep entwined in blackberry briars
parted; just only satisfied, brief quench my fire.


Oh, yes, Mr Chesterton, how walking in the dark
reminds me, brings you back, recaptures sparks
that blow me softly through your greying ember
where red hot pokers bloom in late November.




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