Tuesday, 6 December 2016



Every year, a straight  backed sentinel
packed with ice, called winter.
We fornicate with winds,
birth babies in the dark.
Beds move through  streets,   
float above  Christmas.
Turkey bones dry in empty kitchens.
Torn paper chains.
Hearts simmer at tables,
pastry crumbles in the mouth.
Knives and forks chime the hour.
Sleep waxes to a full moon
Stars birth silently in the sink.

In a still suburb, strung with
fairy lights and frosted privet,
my father sips ginger wine,
my brother has a girl in his room,
my mother bastes the turkey.
The table’s laid for four.
They look up and wave,
ghosts worn thin by forgetting.
We shall not meet again.

This journeying in a wasteland sky.

I’ve seen you before,  the moon says. I have a way with you.
Does this explain my loss of love at the finding of it?

I’ve held your hand before,  the moon says. 
Yes, something once  pulled me from another place.

I know your eyes, the moon says, forever open,
seeking  my light.

Picture by C M Watson

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