It is July and it is Sunday.
A dark, restless Sunday.
Morning hangs like incense: suspended on the kestrel's wooden wings.
Lucidity is but an inky tumult blotting the night's waning stars:
disparate, faceless grey among a growing blackness.
The smoke of a short-lived fire.
The wind hastens. The arms of a birch fold and the church's vane rotates.
The theatre! The anticipation.
The muteness of the rain on a distant field.
Approaching the red-brick house that burns with darkening rooms:
streaks of silver gilding the margin of it's cloaked black eyes.
A hammer falls on this great, wide anvil:
scales of iron scatter and resonate in the upper atmosphere.
I cannot bear to look.
Not far to the left, at the terminal of a tunnel of some fluted grey fabric,
white plumes rise and expand and shadow at the edges.
I walk toward them, over the ghost of an old rain, to a familiar garden:
heather and clover proliferate in it's borders - they are to be hoed constantly.
Hedges of yew and box are to be stripped of the green coats
spring afforded them, tailored to my will and at my expense.
I fight life and nature equally. Forming a transient perfection here.
Perfection soon to be enveloped by the lavender and the stocks,
then themselves by the bind-**** that has taken to their blooms and stems,
to my very roots. All is sustained by this rain, this depressive dampness.
A clock’s hands pain then cease.
Dawn stands timeless on a horizon
Of soot black trees that drink in the
Last darkness, greens and whites
Prevail. Mute chalk hills entice a
Stirring mind that hungers to leave
These walls: walk with the fog as
It hangs low over a barley field,
Retreating tide, black among grey
Reticent, morning hides
behind boles of alder, the air
escaping his lungs
Calcifies in my chest.
A caustic mist mists
Over the rivers pane. Thick
White trails into fine liquid
Black, interring the
slight, torn body. Orange sky-swell
Washes incandescent green:
Dark sienna burns
A path to the waters scorched
White stone. The wood
Holds no sympathy: alacritous
calls knife the sorrowful heart.
Oliver James washed in the rain, no longer.
A March dusk blotted stale
bodies; jet-black water
ran thick with puerile inks
and imparted abandon.
Head shrouded in
cobalt mist, night idled
by a black pane that
rang dull and flat.
Backtracking rooks caught
the vacant eye: threading
a monarchical purple cloak
to hoard the transient days.
Goodness, i need to be more creative with these titles!
only morning exists in this sun's
perverse mind, blackening.
it’s in darkness I wake -
Only afternoons exist.
The sky was set,
stern and volcanic.
My blood ran like meltwater.
Winter flew desultory
around the roof of a
nameless wood -
the birds refused to fall.
spread like wisteria
along the horizons
waning axis. Farmland
humic red fabric
of a fallow field
on my eye under the
A sombre greyness
reclined and presided
over all: joyous
but for the early years