'where night is....
an iron bench painted green.'

opal light

love burning,
narrow roads,
roadhouse blues,

flame of moon
city garden
cider roses
petals falling like
little red tides,
curling edges,
spells of flowers,

magic in the swinging
pub signs and the
avenues, the
cobbled streets
running forever,
little vacant space,
love in arms
thrown together,
clicking stilhettos
chips with wooden forks,

here the moon
runs with the clouds
carries in an empty
basket the fruit
of the day eaten
up, wild and high,

our love, where night
is a tide of black ink,
resting after a heavy
day, our love, sad
tonight, beseiged
by strong armies, almost
forsaken and
yet somehow survived,
a delicate kiss on
the landscape,
content at last,
reduced down
to street blues
a wish to wander,
the laughter of a pub.