Autumn is a Greek sea,
A summation of wet leaves,
Gathered wicks of sunset,
A hypocaust of warm water,
That lies beneath our feet,
Incense from the Sea of Crete,
Risen to the airy suggestive.
Autumn is a word in the mind, fallen leaf-like to the mouth,
How like the orange rind, our ancient past is shriveled under pillars.
“Hypocaust” is essentially a hollow space under the floor where a furnace then supplied heat to homes, a central heating system some references date back to Ancient Greece but certainly prevalent in Ancient Rome.
There is a world outside my window
it screams and rushes and roars
Relentlessly in motion
a ceaseless current
of to and from
coming and going (“Wynberg !?”)
that batters against my walls
Even the trees
in an angry hurried cadence
“You must not keep still!” everything shouts
Yet I remain
sunken and in stasis
cut off from the boundless energy
that proudly moves on and on and on
bluebells flower in the rain,
boy of love,
buttercups on long stems
full of summer’s gold,
the world opens its doors and windows
the air feels fresh and clear,
sadness weaves its way under the trees
prefers to wait in the shadows,
i dream about you a lot,
boy of love.
The fingers of a dying sun reach through my blinds
and find me
Absorbed by thoughts of you
Shafts of sleepy light **** me
gold seeps in and marks my cheek
I wish it were you
Caressing my back and brushing my jaw and stretching across my bed
But it is not.
So for now I contend with the touch of a dipping sun
gradually swallowed by a jealous horizon.
The mountains whisper across the rugged earth
Echos upon echos shimmering through the millennia
A language far preceding the etchings of men, scratched into the ground.
Reverberating through the depths of rock and soil and stone.
A creaking between the roots, steeping into the mantle, and into the sky.
A silent dialogue, between the above and the below, and the within and the around.
An undercurrent that flows unheard beneath the flimsy corrupting crust of mankind,
We are visitors, and it is not our song the mountains sing.
P r o c r a s tination
spilled un e ve nly
on a tiled bathroom floor.
There is a creature in the night.
It is the wind that races around street corners
And taps on your shutters.
It is the cold silent blue lurking between slumbering rooftops.
It is the sliver of pockmarked white that casts a slinking shadow
As she climbs up the black.
It is the leaves of the oak,