Sharp

Love is impossible
A weakness I won’t allow
Myself to indulge
An idea, so swollen
Its glands are the buoys
On which we stand.
Islands, of summer
Stories of winter’s retreat
The courting flowers
Pass from hand to hand
Feeling another life
Intimately breathing in sync
For what?
To undo the damage
I cause when I look
Without love or grace
Encased in my own rapture,
My heart was never given
In this financial agreement.
Love, she sought
To ease the flame
Burning brighter on youthful
Cheeks, sun-kissed
White hot peeling flakes
Drift off to feed
Skin, touching skin,
But I can’t let this vulnerable
Chip on my shoulder
Define what I am
Valves and shocks
Electric sizzle
Microwaveable parts
Print out the solution.
To woes not yet wooed
Deep under wired roots
Stones, as yet unturned
Crumble under sharp shoes

Advertisements
Sharp

Weavers

Carbon monoxide
Infiltrates lungs long before
The over-cooked smell of
Flesh wafts across the borough
Air fresheners only masking
The inside of every two-storey house
With affordable fragrant air
Cooling down from the heat
Under high Victorian ceilings
Jasmine pleasantly bursts
To detoxify olfactory passages
Clothes circle round and round
Still trying to wash away the scent
But the tiny weavers stick
Agonising as they stitch
The dead into the cotton

Weavers