She’s filled with colours.
They emanate as if
from a beehive,
fill this head,
make smooth all edges,
and borderlines of mine.

An orange August sun at dawn,
Risies like a lid.    

Wake me, wake me,
show me now,
please,
show me
colours again.

Oh, to grow!
the quickest I did it
was in those
first few weeks,
away in the womb,
but
if I was to grow
as fast as I did then,
by 50,
I'd surpass
Mount Everest.

How often people must get hit by ambulances,
ones like me and you,
under blissful high,
grey stones skimming through
curb to traffic island to Westmoreland Street
only hearing it's rhythm over the city's dull beat.

In such tranquility,
oh how oh how
would you be to blame
for not hearing the cries
out of her,
out of he,
screaming your name?

How often people must drown in lakes
Those who couldn't wait the hour
to avoid stitches and aches.
Don't leave me alone
my friends, such rocks, you
could sink like gray stones.

Cease to skim and sink
as when Brian's life,
under water thick and black
as a squids ink,
Appeared flashing by,
he was near certain of the day he'd died.

Warm daze, when you wore flowers in your hair,
sleepless nights with your shawl wrapped 'round us both,
under glowing moon, paradise was there,
the blue of the night from the undergrowth,
down a dark garden, so far from daylight,
sharing the night with the sounds from the wild,
if the howls frighten you, I'll grip you tight.
With black flowing hair, in perfect mess styled,
take me to the beach, bury me in sand,
don't you know you are my approaching tide?,
the broken finger on the other hand,
for you, all of my doors lay open wide,
to places unknown and all things unplanned,
we'll hide there in golden castles of sand.

All along the cove,
a rare pretty sight,
the beach, hot as a stove,
barely a breeze to fly a kite.

When strolling down the strand,
no matter how far I go,
always a few shoulder deep in sand,
thankful the tide is still low.

Inevitable company found here,
Whether wanted or not, fine,
men slugging warm beer,
women sipping white wine.

Lazy Sunday afternoon,
Here, no worry at all,
we leave having done so too soon,
all along the cove, just having a ball.

Candles.
Must get candles.
Did I get them before?
Sure where was I before?

I was nowhere.
Biting chunks out of the doors,
lumps out of the floor.
Try as I might,
I can't leave.

Now?

Not in this.
The snow's falling sideways.
The state of it,
all nimble and white.

A lot of tears last night;
and tonight?
No great difference,
but perhaps it could be worse?
Worse than before
I was nowhere.
Among the thorns,
incorporeal save for the
trampling anvil of brambles
rambling, rumbling,
pricking against the flesh,
the skin, in it's
folds and ridges,
veins and arteries
underneath and within,
without scandal,
I wriggle and wrangle
Against those thorns,
their tight strangle,
and this incongruous
state of affairs of mine,
for now.

Must get candles.

By fireplace,
growing colder,
the instinct coffee,
a soiled sorry bath,
had a foamy continent
he struggled to slurp down.

Shuffle down the hall,
shuffle off this mortal coil.

Trousers clung to the waist like
an autumn thing ready to die,
my mother about to cry,
clung to brittle hand and
brittle arm.

Her and I, in
parentheses
escorting
A coffin,
lungs lousy
with sawdust,
coughing up
black maladies in
silver spirals
to fade
In the air,
Always, and ever,
It seems,
The Christmas air.