Alone but together
over the Christmas days
time was not running out
for once the kitchen clock
had stopped looking at him
meaningfully and she

today a thing of beauty
of gathered curves
flowing in and from
that special frock
bought for an opening
(and perhaps worn once?)
she was lovelier then
than any woman
he had known or seen.

Earlier that morning in place of falling
ever falling towards passion’s state
he had lain peacefully beside her
and from his pillowed space in bed
had gazed . . . instead

They did the usual things
but with an unusual care
taking time with presents’ paper
savouring wine between sips of water
cutting into that well-iced cake
and sensing from a distant room
the scent of candles glimmering

On St Stephen’s Day  
they’d upped and offed
into the glen that rose above the town
that held her world of work
of children house and home
walking up through bare winter trees
where far below a stream rushed valley-ward
undrowned for once by the traffic’s noise
and the sudden rush of the railway's train.

About to turn for home
he saw her stoop
to look to gather to pocket
Some sixth sense told him then
an idea had formed itself
when as between her fingers
she held five acorns from the path
not squirreled-perfect shiny ones
but damaged and in need of care
these cups and fruit garnered about
with slivers of broken oaken bark

Later she left them lying
on a sheet of card
their winter colours
true but hard
in the kitchen’s light
objects suddenly
removed from all disorder
of a woodland way.

An hour or so perhaps later
still with her small fingers
she had stitched until . .
no not stitched she said
darned with blue and red
and silk-golden thread
in between and then around
these fractured acorn shells
picked from the path with
the cracked and shattered
broken bark now made
good as new and mended well

Her smile expressed a triumph
and a joy of a doing done
and from laughing eyes
and heightened voice
he sensed something
stretch into time’s distance
something wholly private
she would guard
and hold and own
to be only hers
and only hers alone.

Stretched skies and vast spaces
Erase my name from society,
And mosaics, trigonometry, and fractals beneath
At my feet in time become simple and empty.

So with distance, their powers are diminished,
Finishing off the last busy thoughts to my name.
And the explicitly raw material world disconnects
objects of connection to my world and within this plane.

Shut off from the rest of the world, time wasting,
Tasting the distinct flavor of being in time out,
Awaiting a landing that may or may not be homebound,
Undrowned, within the stream of consciousness’ drought

Primary to pastel
to lights, darks

to static and noise
to nothing.

The old man ice-axes
memory mountain.

Some echo, some glimpse
of all he's lost

is all he seeks.
But all there is

in unpictured void,
scuttling, spidering

denying the light -
a parasite alphabet

barring windows
spinning webs -

the words for which
he once was famous

******* the juice from
all they ever meant.

While lesser spectres
span the spectrum

dreams and photons
undrowned in ink.

And why can morning not last all day,
All afternoon,
All night, then stay.

Morning bright and light
Clean and New
Clear and Slight
Brisk with Dew

Why must morning go away
Why can it not stay-
UnStolen by the rest of day
UnDrowned by dimming hours
UnBuried by blindness in the sway.

Why can morning never stay?

My roses fade; their apples too
But that you will not mention.
The Church-Bell strikes; the wedding ends,
And I grant you exemption.
I haven’t met the love, not yet,
I hope it’s only missing, as I remain
the only one
that you will not be kissing.

My hair was burned from ends through roots
Whilst yours had not remained
The name
‘twas written in my book
Since always in my locket stayed.

Our music heard through drinks we gave
In that Swimming-Pool-Library.
The boy undrowned as I did hold
Him in my hands like finery.
The back is warm
Your eyes uncold
And finally
I reach…

Through that crazy brain of yours
And to the heart you teach.