All the little things that are mine.

The smell of hot cars, slightly sweet.
Convolvulus, pointing at the sun
But once open it is made
of exhausted handkerchiefs

Guess where I’m going.
You can come.

On the way up among the hum
of bees, fences creosoted in spring
give it all back to the air. The first flying ants
tiptoe out in lace. There, under the oak’s
dark leaves it smells like secrets, things

whispered at the sleeping moths which cluster
in the eaves. The light and shade of day
and rowan berries


round as the rind of moon that
tries to be seen, but is shouted down.

I follow my red feet up the steep parts.
Imagine this is me, walking towards you
dressed in young camellia leaves,
blue sky trapped in their cupped hearts

The welder calls me to come and see,
flag-draped and silver in the dark, a Robot-Mercury,
Something he made
at the bottom of the hill that runs up to the park.


Well, you don’t want to share.
You don’t have to share. Maybe
it’s frightening to be interesting.
I don’t feel fear.

the light and the shade of it

This entry was posted in poem, this year and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to All the little things that are mine.

  1. Fles says:

    Thank-you for sharing this.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s