(I discovered the poem below in a drawer I was clearing out - it is certainly mine, but I have
no idea when, or why, I wrote it; I have not changed a word of it, but left it as it is)
Don't wait for me
Where the black moment stoops towards the day
I'll be fine, you'll see.
The night is kind, the sweetness of
The breeze, the still greater darkness of all things unseen.
Who needs the morning
The crack of dawn
The break of day
The fast fall of footsteps on shocked concrete
The shrill call of blackbirds
As the bottles topple like skittles, but into place.
No, the night is kind,
Where the serpents stalk in slithers
And unhinged mothers go in
search of their lost children;
Where tree-branches scratch against windows
Without drawing blood.
Where ravens-in-waiting cluster
Around the thought of death.
What need have I for
The last cold grip of
Your lost hand, lost to him,
Against the wrenching light of day?
I loved you once;
Go now, somewhere else another waits.
It is the lesser pain.
Copyright © Paul James