Category Archives: Couplets

The Present

Beads
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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.
 
 

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Quarrymen

quarry
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

We wake, shale-eyed,
clutching at cold, sharp edges,
 

pebble-smooth warmth
eloping with sleep.
 

Dawn finds us on our knees,
scrabbling in the grit,
 

searching for crude tools
to chip away the grey.
 
 

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fresh


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Freshwater West Path by Annabel Greenhalgh

 

warm freshwest breath
sweeps blue-grass dunes
 

saltwater licks
skin on skin skinny dips
 

unkinking brindled twists
and trying-to-forget-me-knots
 

twain
unravelling twine
 
 

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On Missing Morpheus


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Lassitude drags her bare feet across blonde wood;
+++++++mellow-beamed in milky, branch-broken light.
 

Sleep-splintered, draped in cotton-stripe fatigue,
+++++++++++++stalking the sink of a cushioned chimera,
 

she buckles instead to the barbed ruin of her companion;
++++++++++++++quietly cursing the brackish insolence of his grasp.
 
 

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Ritual


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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
toothpaste-tinged rim.
 

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.
 
 

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The secret life of a ginger beer plant

Liquid languor of converse flavours,
spooned and stirred nightly.
 

Pepper-sweet swirl of pungent water-waltz
spirals, lifts and dips.
 

Sink-settles, rests; sated,
content, concentrated.
 

Reawaken to commune
on sediment of aromatic ritual.
 
 

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Livingston

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

~ 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.

 


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Blaze

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.

 


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