Commonword Blogs

Blossom flocks to consecrated corners
kissing gravestones and the feet of park benches
blessed by shadows of evening light

And

Pilgrims of praying bluebells, along the roadside
under shrubs; up paths to homes:

Held by a cuckoos chorus
sending you into serene sleep.

This is one of four love songs
I wrote this song for you ( x 2)

My life was a Quartier Debachi street: donkeys, cats,
motocyclettes, all trampled on it. Then along came you.

This is one of four love songs
I wrote this song for you (x 2)

Life was a plodding horse: I dug it, beat it, zee’d it,
it just kept plodding on. Then along came you.

This is one of four love songs
I wrote this song for you (x2)

I was a chicken in an old wire cage: waiting for
that bloodied hand to thrust in. Then along came you

Past midnight, no spare sofa
I lent you a T shirt, bulk up the thin duvet.

Next morning you asked me where we were going
other than we’re going to get dressed.

You left me my T-shirt.
Smells fade with time.

Two weeks and you phoned: any plans?

You eased my sparkly
ladybird purse into your back pocket
sliding me a secret smile:
a language of colour and light

I collected the glints and dimples
you showed me on the winter nights.
They kept the chill from my fingers.
Your friendship: gloves
around the hands of time

For us only:
the nights spent pushing words up hill
severing gasps of cold air.
For us only the parallel
sleeping and curve of acceptance

We were irridesent particles:
syllables kaleidoscoped between us
our bodies merging mist
fragments forming a whole

Music held messages in its lyrical fist

Maybe cats meander on another street
and snails sloth minutely in the lawn.
Drenched dogs gambole in a neighbouring field.

Slick pebbles shield insects from sight
ambititious ants bustle there
whilst soggy branches whisper over
budding bluebells and a bunch of yellow flowers

Potential pedestrains prevaricate indoors
Mulling over domestic choices.
curled up with a book
whilst streamed windows blur

Cars sigh in garages
or lie idol in the torrent.
Their helplessness apparent:
yearning to start their heaters blowing
and their wipers swishing

No planes streak the sky today