Fail #3 - I miss uni - Some Poetry from 2006

Lent
Aching calm
consumes the house.
Alone
in hours of thought
and circles
sketched
behind my eyes.

My hands
are at my desk.
I watch them
sweep the page
with words
while dust collects
on clock-hands,
and the sun
never dies.


The Only Way I Love the Quiet
It was the last day of October,
remember? I was restless,
caught by city walls
and counted days
of stalking magpies,
staking-out the moss
between the pavement slabs.

That day we stood together
on the platform. Waiting
for the rumble of and escape
train to the lake.
Between us, static
silence smothered
the only space to breathe
within the whiplash pace
of a clockwork city.

When the doors opened,
a hundred miles north,
a shock of air greeted us
with flushed cheeks.
And at the shore,
the simple beat
of water, licking pebbles,
drew a rule against the swell
of our impeded speech.

We found our tongues,
of course. Even enemies
are never dumb for long.
So, as we limbered
up the fellside,
we strived to fill the time
with syllabic drudge.
Verbose lines of anything
with no relevance to us.

On the summit crags
we gulped the wind,
the drone of my last sentence
sliced mid-air.
Clouds were riddled,
stakes of sunlight
pinning lush greens
to the granite.
Knife-edge colour
rose in peaks
to prick the sky.

But my gaze was stolen
by two birds of prey
that swooped and waltzed
the stampeding wind.
They rode together
with ballet grace
and whatever touched me
found you too.

You took my hand
and I didn't waste words.

Our first moment shared
in silence.


Limbo
Here we sit alone,
assigned to boxes,
taking shallow breaths
clogged thick
with urban dust,
walking endless streets
becoming faceless.

My feet lead me
stone to stone
without direction.
I step to squint
at signposts,
bent in neglect,
while the city buckles,
groans beneath.

Through starless skies
and blind-spot sun,
the only light to guide me
seeps from under hoods
of network lamps,
to amber pools
inviting me to jump,
spotlight to spotlight.


Dead Skin
I woke early this morning
And cleaned my house.
It was the onion peel
In the kitchen
That inspired me.
The waste of an evening
Spent drinking wine
And chewing on the product
Of my whim
For haute cuisine.

I picked it up
And felt it crack
Against my palm,

Then looked at my fist
And thought of revolutionaries,
And wondered if every rebel
Held a trinket
Just like mine.
Their cause was for the future
But their fight was with the past,
And in a way,
They pushed for freedom
Of the fingertips
So that they may touch
And feel again.

I woke early this morning
In the mood for mutiny.
The onion peel felt foreign
In my hand.
In the yard
I let my grasp unfurl
And watched
As the flakes were lifted
And peeled
Like old scabs
That blemished new skin.

They caught the wind
And fluttered away -
Ash from the flames,
And the breeze
Took the woodsmoke
From my hair.