She left at the yawn of dawn
Between fog-densed waking hour
And rain-soused grey morning.
Veiled, her image was laced in silhouette.
She stood behind the fog-rain, a dark
Painting, sketched in black crayons of
Languor.
Her breath, one streak of ink
Of a satanic fresco on a dingy subway.
And the breath of the rain was heavy,
Brewed in hauteur -
So was the world between us two,
Lame and proscribed.
She wandered through flighty directions.
Grouches filled her lugubrious lungs,
Blotches on the sludged track, echoing
Her slouch.
She was one mass of trembling grief.
I was one hulk of ruinous pain.
Between us, the funeral of love.
Threnodies held court on the once soft
Yolk of hugs that sensitized an ageing
Romance.
Dawn darkened with the pulse of grief
Rain pelted the senses held by solemn
Consternations, recreating a fruitless
Void of hollow trepidations.
She lurched and sidled towards the
Crag-lined route, towards earth’s drooling
Beck... and I knew the funeral
Was over.
in the remote remoteness
of somewhere remote
flew a fly
this fly had realised gravity,
relativity and string theory
a professor and physicist
wise to everyone else
in the dark darkness
of somewhere dark
sped a spider
this spider had mastered
a multitude of languages
a remarkable multilinguist
understanding everyone else
in the open openness
of somewhere open
mouthed a moth
this moth recited poetry
of a profound profundity
an awe-inspiring poet
warming everyone else
in the damp dampness
of somewhere damp
sludged a slug
this slug was just a slug
but more than a slug to others
wise, understanding, warming
a friend to everyone else
Spring is here and temperatures rise
Sludged path—tanks go to their demise
And with the realization of risk
An army marched so sure and brisk
Nature wins, not a soldier’s surprise
…of streets walked on still,
taken in by looks and glances that create
more than a memory - but a
gallery revered for years to come.
Of the skyline rising and falling like a
heart monitor, painted passionately red and
tinted orange from crushed autumn leaves;
the city’s fluid backbone muddied
and sludged and smudged by fingertips themselves
crafted and carved from bark in Regent’s Park;
a jewel, a diamond in a crown that sparkles in
a frame held by proud hands and tall chimes that
paint reminders of time across Victorian pebbles.
Of that ‘implacable November weather’ so loved
by Dickens. The cold air now water-coloured
against New Year explosions of kaleidoscopic palates
and clean canvases and annual additions
to the portfolio of a capital.
So, trace your hands back across each painting;
turn each image to reveal another take and
dash after brush after stroke after flick of
War of the Roses paint and Industrial Revolution charcoal
or the pencil of a Globe’s playwright with
the oil of underground tracks below the
Mache moulds of those streets walked upon still…
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