It’s an
odd comfort
that it is
always raining somewhere
Old watering cans
collecting water
Tawny pines
lofty, sighing in the mist.

When my bones
are laid out
like a picket fence
in a wooden coat
they will drink
with the roots
and stone
and earth.

And when I am but
dust or atoms it will still rain
maybe I will be bricks
in a building
or some tarmac slab
something functional
or a peony flower
or even forget-me-nots
it will still rain
and I will be gone.

Crude
We pushed
each other
against saintly walls
lips sinking under
leaving bite marks
like cherry blossoms
on magnolia skin.

Hands through hair
Heavy air
Heavier breathing
Ribcage to ribcage
grazing flesh
on limestone
obscured by altars
behind cloister doors
Our bodies are cathedrals
built of blood.

We fall further
into one another
On hallowed stone.
hate the sin…?
Love the sin
Love the sinner
Be the sinner
Be the sin.

We planted tulips in each other,
in the night.
While the rain played in street light
We intertwined,
As old roots or Ivy.

We left marks in each other;
Like pressed limestone,
Like Rock built into churches,
Like wave weathered slate.

I move the hair from your
Noctilucent eyes.
And we arch together
Like ash or poplar.
Your lips are warm;
A sirocco in the chine of winter.

Love,
It is this.
No greater no lesser
And though the deeps of oceans
May stand between;
The between of us is neither wide, nor far
I carry you with me
For my home is built of
What we are.

I close my eyes
And you’re still there
you washed your hair
whilst the pots
and the pans
you left in your shower
clamoured for water
in calming tones.

padding feet
careful tread
A dancer? Maybe…
And I watched from
the ribbon of hall light

as you

wrung out your inhibitions
cleansed a small torment or two
Somewhere I hear a piano
your eyes found mine
and for a second I loved you
for a second there was but that second
and nothing, nothing more.