Crepe myrtle blooms, pink like the blush of fever
roots growing from the broken bones and spirit
but drinks from the lingering passion of past lovers.

Your footsteps are the creeping of violets throughout
the garden, yet I can feel your touch on the air as it rains,
your memory like the wood smoke from across the street.

I lick my lips, apology and sin, at the tip of my tongue.

I recall
her lost smile

like a sketch
I draw from my memory

and those days in the rain
laughing, drops

hitting the creek
slow as a dream

until a shadow
fell across the mirror

brushing her hair
in a dark room

like a honeycomb
of sad bees

and double entendres
two lifetimes ago.

Just past dawn
She toddles out in
A flour-sack apron,
A hatchet in her
Pocket.

Beside the upright
Log, its bark aging,
Leans a potato sack
With one white
Cackling hen inside.

The woman is all
Business, this job
Nothing new,
Dinner comes soon.

The log is capped
With two rusty nails
About 2 inches apart.

The hen continues
Her song, ignorant
Of her fate.

The woman grabs
The hen in her left
Hand, the hachet
In her pocket.

With deft attention,
The woman places
The hen’s neck between
The nails.

The cackling becomes
A maniacal squawk,
But no one is there
To grieve.

One quick stroke
Is all it takes, and
The hen’s head is
On the ground.

The stump is full
Of blood, and the
Proverbial body
Is running around,
Minus the squawk.

The woman grabs
The hen and shoves
Her back into the
Potato sack, minus
Its head.

The task is done,
Five minutes max.

Time to take her
To the kitchen for
The plucking of
Feathers and the
Saving of edible
Internal organs.

The woman and her
Hen are ready for
The family’s Sunday
Dinner, only hours
Away.

The hen’s head
Rests outside, its
Comb, beak and
Wattle the worse
For wear.

The woman sings,
Rehearsing:
Komm, Herr Jesu,
Sei unser Gast….


© Lewis Bosworth, 2016

oh little walk.  it rained under the trees,



the lorry was bigger than the lane, lights

shining.



oh little evening, the plane flew low



lights shining.



i am a fortunate, to live

without fear.



mostly.



with light shining.



there is a red flag flying.



sbm.

Think of me at dusk when stars
Cast the world in the light of night
When trees are washed in Selene's milk
And dreams are born in cream and white
Think of me when the morn rises
To the hum of feathers in a choir
When the sky's ablaze with scarlet shades
As dawn rides her chariot of fire

Think of me in waves of water
That arch to touch the golden grains
In woodlands sylvan, calm and quiet
Or in the music of the rain
Think of me in glens and meadows
Along silver streams and brooks that sprint
In gardens of lavender blue
And orchards tinged with fuchsia pink

So think of me, my love, think
Think of my love - so true
One day hoping you might love
Just the way that I love you