In bed together we drank dank methylated spirits 
as your hot water bottle,
my one last reminder of you,
cools to a 
carcass

My heady heart hurts
because I miss you
however I know
you are probably happy
and just a few hours away,
although I will have to
endure several months without hearing the quick stomp
of your feet
up the stairway.

Salty mess is laminated 
in hard rime
whilst the moth ribbons
like a broken lasso 
over the bathroom tiles.

In your letters 
the handwriting conveys 
your shaking vulnerability
in the fog.

The rime and 
The grapefruit soap 
and lye solder your calico dress in blisters
With cascading Tempera over your chest

Along the globe 
of your eye, camel eyelashes
powdered skinny 
with make up shower with sadness then close in drug dry desperation.

Your legs 
are dolphins enthroned 
in scarlet 
with grazes and gazes grace them with concern.

Wishful butterflies
startle the wistful
rain in June.

Garnet spottings
on their silken wings decry
the wet pellets
which scatter the grass in glass.

The mallard sighs a sweet
hymn and candles
smoke down from the clouds with sun rays which pay in gold for all things great.

Dragon flies
across khaki swirls of pond hover
and dip with the rush of the thrush's song.

Flowers huddle in the puddles after the monsoon
but soon
their proud stems will bend and weep tears of sap for the summers end.

The burning flowers underline the sunset and 
Dash before the fire (k)night catches them.
Ripe berries cheaply
tremble 
but hopefully their vitality won't burst the pulp pulsating
beneath.

Crumbling flowers
crumb the floor
And Prisms of catching silver refract rose quartz and petal
and crimson
dust.

Bejewelled in Scarlet,
the air,
as the (k)night approaches, grows colder,
Unsure of whether he will bring
solace or strife.

In his chariot
he flies faster than the bees which buzzed around the fruit flutes
in the morning and among the trumpeting bluebells.

Stars fleck the (k)night
like freckles
and the milky ways resins stain his spouting steams lovely. 

The (k)nights kind onyx reaches his crescendo and the floating moon danced drowsily through the cloud's spiralled tendrils

Which diminish as dawn
approaches
so their Tentilcles
droop to crinkled tissue paper sheathed in pink.

And so the (k)night
rides on into
The frivolous sunrise.
The lowing, glossy calves
in sage beside the ***** fields
cast a beloved ambience 

As though
we are safe
in the knowledge
that the sky will remain
forever
topaz and the leaves
forever emerald.

You cry
for the lost lands of ice
and cry
for the wounded
and the searching.

You cry for yourself,
selfishly,
some will say.

You cry for the fact
that you cry for you,
and cry
for that fact too.

You cry
that the brave
don't cry, though
some would say
they do.

And when you've
stopped
crying and
the rushes have crept
high along the brook,
you cry
that you are older.

The coffee stain
would not come off
the wall, dear, when i scrubbed
it only the peeling wallpaper
came off in my hand.

It flaked down like
snow onto our rug.
Do you remember, darling,
when we bought that rug,
it was an old place
in Clapham with
threadbare
walls and the old man smoking
a pipe asked if we were together.

We didn't know what to tell him,
babe, but when you asked me
the other day
where I had put the
lost keys I thought of us.
They have been lost
a few years now,

We lost the keys somewhere
incomprehensible
and I cannot get in.

The coffee stain will not
come off the wall, dear.