Soaring past the cloudy moon

The Eagle dives beneath the spume

To wrest away the wary mouse,

Ere dawn, to yonder eyrie-house.


And far beneath the cliffs aglow

Men go about their rigmarole.

But an upward gaze affordeth hence,

A fleeting glimpse of elegance.

Boots on a highway, mud in the field.
Take it home. Take it home.

Sand in leather, blood on stone.
So far gone.

Paper curls, smoke unfurls.
Ash in a tray.

Green lights on the ceiling. Red lights on the wall.
Up this high, I can see them all.

Even my name has an unfamiliar taste.
The whiskey is just the same.

Princes and princesses in aprons and suits,
Pirates on ships in the clouds,
Half-forgotten hopes and dreams,
And a vow of patience --

Scribbled in a 15 year old notebook,
In green felt pen,
In joined up handwriting, summed up in a phrase:
‘Wait for the stars to align.’

When Mars came hard and the moon turned its back
I forgot that notebook, and its plea,
When love found its way through to the eye of the storm,
And I accepted its course with a bitter tack --

I didn’t care for that notebook, and its caution
When all was in shadow, and
love’s bitter fruit wrought its sweet poison.
Paralysed by fear of loss and the barren vine.

I found a cure in the darkest sea
Beyond despair,
Beyond hope,
Of a promise made long ago.

Of a silver notebook
And green felt pen
In joined up handwriting
'Wait for the stars to align.'

And I did.

Tears rinse ash from her cheekbones
Understanding outgrows hostility
And each from this tapering path
Finally separate.

Her eyes glisten as she rabbits
on about how Mars is in its second
alignment, and the moon is
in her corner.

The bell above the door tinkles
as it slams--

Vagaries of fate swoop and
dive, and
he can’t stop thinking
about how beautiful
her lips are
as they move.

... quiet eyes meet in desire evolving:
a Future swelling above fragile lives.
            wires that pierce the tissue
                        twist and shatter,
      penetrate muddy bloodstreams,
                clarify joy, fear, anxiety –
   a longing that pierces the veil
                     and illuminates                  
         death just as surely
                      as hope.

Another year passes, softness slowly looms.
Another pair bought on a Sunday afternoon.

Bare feet incarcerated, plush warmth
scuffing blue carpets,
Sound is numbed and Feeling stifled.

The foot, wearing sore as the day drags on,
pines for evening,
and comfort.

Steamy faces masked by a silver curtain,

The show about to begin.

The ache is deep. I'll carry it far.
As my feet walk in reverse, hoping for a glimpse of what was lost.

Why do we ever turn our backs to the warmth?
Why do we face the chill of the unknown?

A thirsty man must drink, and yet I abstain.
Slowed as I am by the driving rain.

Home becomes legend, becomes myth, half-believed.
Becomes a story. A fire behind glass, a vision; mirage.

If desire requires lack, then perhaps home feels best
with the miles on my back.

As I walk I wonder if the sound of water
is better than the taste of home.