Such is the Fate of Angels Born

 

Such is the Fate of Angels Born

 

 

In Plymouth we began to draw, before our time

together, crystal stars above started to align,

scoring diamond arcs into cut-glass expanse.

 

Writing testament before we had learned to sign,

bright in brash symbols, curved parabola dishes,

all slowly grinding gimballed turrets, pegged cogs,

pointing needled fingers at thundercast heavens,

where galaxies swirl outwards from the centre,

never meeting except by intervention or design,

two vivid coalescing roaming masses briefly find

shared space; a decade or two of pooled rhyme.

 

Finds me a traveller puked up, cast out, hauled

from station floored concrete mossy platforms;

heavy sea tore vulpine teeth into sandstone cliffs,

iron tracks bent apart from sleepers forming rifts

unsealing, one lost squall tossed January mauled.

 

Small, it is true, in time I became smaller still,

more than mindful of vultures gyring above,

tailored alone, until you finally find such clothes

suit well, fit the body snugly, separateness grows.

 

Tolerant of voices that speak in long gone tongues

wrapped within memory, while flesh withers slow,

but man-trapped feelings hard times have sealed

within eyes as streaked as yours today, my love.

 

The train pulls in, sixty years steam to a halt,

thinking back, lock those lost voices in vaults,

I had ridden storm blown scorn, knitted brow,

flung the painter, raised anchor, took the prow.

 

You’re taller now, quite reaching up to my chin,

mind strong, despite limpet hug and weak grin,

and your tousled head, soap scented, leans in,

notes my crumpled black mask in love slipping

from my nose. Those are boy’s tears, I suppose,

for a year is a long time in virus, build sorrows

in protein spikes, gouging hearts out of spite.

 

I can see in your look you think it isn’t right,

but I had eyes to see with once, just as bright,

before this dark suit of much beaten thin skin.

 

Threw kitbag on my shoulder, left to let it begin

that journey, spiralling out in arcs to meet you,

away, away, from harbours grim our boat flew,

so steady as she goes, bite your wobbling lip,

hard starboard on, noble boy, bring us midships

to set my course by your brave constant star,

til one bright future look back in healed scars.

 

For when, of fierce cold October frost, still lost,

I was passed lit cigarette and guardedly told

that soon I would have another heart to hold,

well, it never ends, stealing you with my arms

when first we met, your look a soul becalmed.

 

Cast off your grief, we should not be forlorn,

it is smiles, not tears, that should be worn,

look back from your futures, a day will dawn,

when having lost, I gladly pass this baton on.

Take it well, for such is the fate of Angels born.