Strange thing this, to sit with silence –
millennia of regret; cold stones at our backs.
Clutching worry in work-worn hands,
we balance, fearful, on this brittle plinth,
while the gift of the unopened moment
lays unnoticed at our feet.
Lacquer clogs my early morning mouth.
Spitting curses and acetates, I watch
as her barely-there bottom
perches on Kohl-smudged porcelain,
spidery legs dangling from the
Eye-liner daggers drawn,
parrying tongues and tangling elbows
we jostle for space and giggles,
jousting in a lotion-cluttered arena,
hairspray mace and mascara lances –
fighting for glass.
Liquid languor of converse flavours,
spooned and stirred nightly.
Pepper-sweet swirl of pungent water-waltz
spirals, lifts and dips.
Sink-settles, rests; sated,
Reawaken to commune
on sediment of aromatic ritual.
~ Inspired by and dedicated to my poet friend John Magpie Congreve – a seagull by any other name.
As he walks the grey rain-slicked streets,
steep scaffolding – Sycamore trees,
runs fingertips across railings,
barbed metal; embroidering leaves.
Young arms outstretched turning circles,
two-tone gull in the ocean’s breeze,
chimerical brushes painting
beauty over urban disease.
Looked in all the usual places; briefcase, wallet,
trouser pockets. Dreading, hoping to unlock it;
wanting just to understand why our portraits scowled
at one another, face to face in the little locket.
Eventually found it in the tiny scorched corners
of the upturned curve of the blazing sun
that rose every time she walked in the room
and slowly but surely my world came undone.