I waited for them with my hair *******,
with a necklace on and my lips red.

I saw their chairs
and all the places that were set.

I had pearls in my ears,
I had lace upon my dress.

I watched the ice melt
and the bread as it went stale.

I had kohl around my eyes,
I had bracelets on my wrist.

And I saw the wax burn down
until the wick blew out.

I had tears upon my cheeks
I had a stinging in my nose,

and I watched as the milk turned sour,
and the meat as it went cold

I had perfume on my neck
with a stench that filled the air.

And I felt the sun rise on my back,
and the moon confront it again.

I will go back to that silent evening;
the night a silver haze.
Thick with the smell of rapeseed
and there we stood together.

I will go back to that silent hill,
the valley rolling out below us.
The moon casts about these
shadows; violet upon the track.

I will go back to that silent place
deep inside my chest.
On mid-summers eve we watched
almost all the night pass by.

I will go back to that silent room;
we both know what came next.
All the blossom on the ground,
and grass stains on our clothes.

I will go back to that silent evening
and not know the people there.
These strangers in my memory
embraced mid-summers night.

The pull is strong,
heavy. The dense weight
of a kite tugging at its string.

The pearl of the moon swung
over the sea. Easily. Here, there. Wherever it might want,
yet the pull is strong.

Held in place, it’s carefully strung
up and cold. I thought of you and wrote
daily; a kite tugging at its string.

Sing.
Be free, shine in the white
pull that is strong.

Sharp as it stung
me, the ache of this wait;
a kite tugging at its string.

On my back you will be slung
close, yet wherever we are is right.
The pull is strong;
a kite tugging at its string.

They sound like fire crackling
or cutlery scraping against a plate.

Yet silent and spinning;
a sigh swept from the chest.

Slow as a feather falls to a lake;
a kiss on the lips, a hand to the face.  

They sound like frost caught in the night,
like the static friction of your gloved hands.

Morning diamonds, damp with dew,
and trudging on in old heavy boots.

The sound of the world turning
is in the echo of each falling leaf.

Wavering, drifting until they come to the curb,
crisp and brittle and easy to break.

They sound of scarves and hats and gloves
in that constant fight for warmth.

But in the wind they sing, they’re alive,
the sound of whispers, the colour of fire.

Like a statue
he peers out. He’s watching
the people as they pass.

Calm, as they hurry by
he’s watching. Judging,
disapproving at their haste.

“Why do they rush?” he asks,
ears twitching. Watching through
the glass he is aloof.

A yawn passes over
his face. Maybe a nap
will pass some of the day.

He sits and ponders and
yawns again. Still watching
the people run.

Then suddenly he’s had
enough. And with one look
at me he saunters away.