[12 August 2019]
Once around the bend we go,
once again we go
feeling fingers longingly stretched out long past the joints and skin and connective tissues,
moulding meaning from the dust of the earth and the breath of our lungs
pushing deeper and deeper into an abstraction so long idealised we forgot it was once desire;
the sun sets through tangles of ivy at the corner of Fire Street and Coll Net,
silent, serene, lost in the tumble of time stolen and misspent,
(crumpled up and folded in back pockets and pocket squares and chocolate squares
gone through the wash one too many times,
the pen bled from inside to inside to side to outside,
marbled and mumbled and jumbled into a language all its own,
slipped between hands and pressed between lips until it takes on a new life),
the original language lost and transformed into the prima materia of a new age,
an age of motion, of solace, of fire woven in-between the blades of grass that crown your head.
The moon slips from behind his veil, showing his gentler side,
the sign of white sheets and white nights and amber skin
spread lazily across hill and treetop, flame takes flight,
swallowing subtly and sublimating sincerity until they are both subsumed
into the sacred dance of sight somewhere between the
oak and the ash.
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