Half of What I say is Meaningless,
but I Say it Just to Reach You
When you’re ready to fly, my love,
then let me know, I can wait.
I heard in England they gave
out some chance of snow, still,
I reckon the nearest it came,
to being deep, crisp or even
was grit grey slush underfoot:
you’d have to raise your eyes
up from weather beaten pavements and look.
There. See that?
Some clouds brood in purple heads above,
magnificent in ermine trim, they reach
amidst meditative, reflective sky,
can fill grounded travellers trudging below
with foreboding. Quick. Use an umbrella,
shield yourself, it’s coming, rushing headlong,
so protect yourself – better safe than sorry.
Then again, it could foretell Christmas joy,
approaches in glorious new world rising:
depending on forecast or outlook.
Clouds like aching, full pregnant breasts
cascade swelling snow, shower naturally,
heaven dripping with expression
will gloss silk-white black slate tarmac,
and those often viewed, familiar cracks
seen everyday with head down, chin-drop
twisted mouthful of dull disdain,
for all you might see is sooty rain,
grin back at you in bright toothed scream:
‘Where are you going and where have you been?’
All these words are meaningless,
cannot reach you if you are deaf,
so, I guess a full-frontal hard Winter blast
is what’s crucial now, unmuffle ears,
a detonation might clear out blocking wax.
Or nude Arctic rolls, in rude exposure,
tumbling downhill, riding the avalanche,
until every bit of skin stiffens, pricks
all your hairs up skywards in delight.
Lie back breathless laughing on teasing snow.
Let the cold winds through dull minds blow,
arouse soggy raspberry jammy-dodger brain,
in strip-jack-naked ice plunge from cliffs
into beckoning glacier mint blue lakes. Thaw,
pull hard, crack freezer’s ice frozen door,
groaning with last year’s leftover ready meals,
Oh, let them go to waste,
those plastic tray, two for one Iceland deals
you thought might come in handy once,
but maybe melt forever those fingers of frost,
gorge on fruit, ooze in chocolate, paint it all over
in front of red-hot-poker chestnut fire.
Warm, towel off soaking, dripping wet through skin
mopping up any damp patches left
on blush toned burned carpet.
Look up, for there it comes, or let’s both slog on;
slow steppers, without skipping beats
like high, low, swing, dolly, pepper;
shake drips from brolly, shake head at all this folly,
it’s always better the devil you know,
because they gave out sooty rain, not snow.
Still, sometimes you just have to dare to bare,
take off your scarf and discard woolly gloves:
So, when you’re ready to fly,
then let me know, my love.