dead bee,
   broken buzz,
black ball made of limp wings,
   cardboard-tube limbs.
it’s a schism,
   a fault in the system;
what or who did the deed?
   even the amber isn’t as lurid
as one would expect,
   now just a charred spot,
the life drained out of it
  like water streaming out

through a sieve.

In the end
we ended up in the pub -
now there’s a surprise.

Fifteen nights out of thirty,
at least. Cheap grub
and we knew the owners,

mates of my folks.
‘All right pal?’, he said.
‘Not bad’, I said back.

Our feet ached,
my arms cracking like conkers
as I stretched,

got comfortable.
And then you mentioned
the C-word again.

‘But in a few years.’
A nod. A sip. The cool slither
of lager down my throat.

We’d talked, of course,
about it before. People
expected, assumed

a kid was the next step.
You didn’t like
my quietness on the matter -

you’d kick my leg, teasingly,
as if kicking the answer
into my body, my mouth.

Honestly? I hadn’t given it
much thought. A sure thing
was my regular line of choice.

'You know, I fancy you
so much right now.'
OK, so I don’t know

what made me say that,
but it had already zipped
across the table,

buried in her ears
before I clocked on.
I really meant it though.

I think your cheeks
went cherry red -
there was a kiss, I remember.

I’d answer properly
later on, the pub
a foggy memory

and that night, I slept
knowing I’d fancied you
from the first second we met,

and that the C-word
wasn’t as horrid
as I always used to believe.

Look at this, I said.
Chalky expanse,
lonely, untarnished decoration.

Blush of cold,
branches rest as veins
atop a transitory skin.

Could be silk, maybe fur.
Winter discovery
like forgotten snowmen.

A footprint chime,
high note shimmering
through bitter liquid.

Murmurs of cobalt,
tongues of white,
our fresh heaven.

Past week, on the night of Tiw
an uneasy candle-flame wavered
censored by hushed air kisses
casting doubt upon an ode;
scribing the blessed years of youth.

This pine scented disturbance
no doubt - an Autumnal message;
that rear weathered doors
failed in the tempered change
curiously bidding, further venture.

Patio' marbles were shrouded
creeping with expired foliage
leaves tainted old hickory
near devoid of all famed ochre,
merciless to breaths of the fall.

That sombre mulched pattering
was alike wistful wondering;
of delicate and shadowy footfalls
from condemned, exiled seraphs
strung by moonlight rays.

The flavescent master glistened,
whilst duelling a clouded force;
enclosing in vaporous march
smearing pebble trailings,
the skirmish roused nostalgia.

For eerie quivers - of familiarity
wrought from the despondency,
as if epitaphed notions of old
were recited by alto whistling,
each note rekindling a memoriam.

An exhale of soulful proportions
sent adrift an essence;
a smouldering encirclement
of exhumed - solemnly recalls
taken from seasonal chapters of yore.

Those hearted ashes of distant times
cavorted - as sterling embers
with a phantasmic replica
of an adoration long gone,
duetting on pockets of melancholy.

Then beauty settled into a sepulchre,
caressed by grieving wreath petals
saddened by silken veil,
awaiting the fateful - dust and sand;
the remnants of embodied divination.

Revived dolor swelled from within
tiding from old, emotive cicatrices
buried deep and then deeper
until from this panoramic taunt
does this churned anguish vein.

A corrosive, timely hiss from Carpo
brushed the illusions past
as once - to a maidens' mortality;
a premature cremation of dreams
lingering the bitterness of decay.

As the pining sky orb retreated
so too - this observer with mourn
stuttering farewells to the nameless
then returned to the forgiving study
to immerse again - in better times.

I wish I had a boat
For yonder past the bay, on a clear azure painted day
Dripping of briny spray - I would float.
I'd also likely gloat,
Brag and mutter; of the absence of worldly clutter
Without disdain I'd utter - an ode soaked note;
To the magnificence would wrought this boat.

How I've longed to drift
To fuse with motion - to sway upon that curved, wavey potion
Pondering the notion - of this swelled gift.
The answer cometh swift;
Took me from the predators, stingers and creditors
The lies of the editors - and fractions they rift,
Dissolving into moana - they'd sift.

All alone with the deep;
Of corals a glow under hatchlings of roe,
Steadfast in flow; plankton they'd reap,
Whilst I'd ponder - my last leap.
For one could do worse than a liquid hearse
With no curse - dare stalk that steep,
And no soul for me - would weep.

Sunken then - I'd take this boat
For we'd be capsized, that vainly I'd be baptized
Blended and disguised; in that ever wide moat.
Perhaps I seem the dote,
Drastic and careless that I be airless
Surely tearless and near full bloat,
Perhaps 'tis best; I have no boat.