The anatomy of moments (the first)

Tne anatomy of moments

 

stars, the shards of a shattered universe

cry, tear drops on a canvas of dreams

we shall never inhabit for they are

just echoes of a time long dead

 

it is all I have

and I have known love

but it is still a gaping

sense of loss

 

my mother’s endless encouragement

a vapour now that she has gone

my wit, my charm, my accomplishments

just crumbs on a well worn floor

 

my love of poetry

an idolatry for the patterns words weave

is always moderated by an X-Ray

that filters through me

 

looking for scar tissue and wounds

that might build a case

for a better model

more robust in the ways of the world

 

but these moments are

refugees in a crisis of confidence

bound in nightmares to roam

in uncertainty

 

programmed to return

wanton with a savage lust

to rent and sunder

where sunlight would prefer to rest.

Switch

Switch.pic.

 

Soft vows subside on the kerb

 in a gathering of yellows and browns surrendering

as a light wind makes the leaves skittish

 and those with memories,

those most recently released from the bough

and fallen through shafts of sun

 form a duvet that wraps itself

against the cold of a new,

coming season.

 This is yet another turning point

against a casual hand that insists

we go blind to history and forget

that time and tide are cycles

we dare not ignore

lest the light goes out.