Tweeting thrushes twittering
Above our heads,
A certain thickness about the air
Which fills my lungs with ***** matter.
The heavens opening, scarring my scaled skin.
You talking.

Tulips
Fresh from a plot of
Lazily potted plants,
The stench garrotting me as I walk past,
And just as I do, you appear,
Talking.

I'm at best when I'm resting.
Stop pressing me I need this serenity,
This blank papyrus and
Sea sodded swimwear.
My only memento of you.
Stop talking.

You and I, You and I, You and I,
They said.
Why must they lie and ignore
Your tentative gaze?
My harboured farcical thoughts
Encroaching my mind,
Slowly metastasising through the hollow mould
Which is my body.

The noose lies still on the white-wash table.

We are together again.
Our  names imprinted on a boulder of soft, cold granite,
And beneath the dead tulips
And the heavy mud,
We stop talking.