I think the clouds grew mouths, extended their tongue down from that 'set and gave new energy, loosely tumbling as stray grey hairs with all the tragic innocence of city bees, and city nectar, filterless and bimbling, and out came the church bells, ancient burns and passive attacks on quiet men who'd asked for it, or found their seats on unlit fires waiting for the world to burn and smoke would rise, send the greyness rising into the ether, the evermore, where they would pinken bright and blazing as a sky one Saturday afternoon.
As in a cautionary tale from Blake The goat and the sunflower Morris’d on the greensward by the lake In what wasn’t Albion’s finest hour There were strings of coloured lights Between the trees in Mutley Park As distanced poets gathered by daylight Pretending it was after dark But like in Blake’s Nurse’s Song All the hills echoed with children’s smiles It was as if things were right not wrong At a junction that wasn’t Seven Dials
From winters shattered bones you constructed a tiny unfinished cathedral feather for a font a magnolia petal the stretched sacrament blushed with Spring's blood a crow the choir a congregation of primroses lift the gamma glow of their radioactive faces stare at the fractured sky bluebells bow heads heavy with the blue smoke from their expired thoughts out of sight as they swing on the swings the incense of children's cries streaming behind them like the spirits of scarves resisting the fade today I still see it there in the abandoned park delicate as if made from the bones from the inner ear or blackbird bones song still echoing through their thin tunnels an inverted shipwreck its slight arches rising from the soil no ceiling for prayers to curl and sink against a fallen nest upturned still a home the bowl has become a cave I shrunk and danced around the gold ghost of the fire inside
I collected all my poems strewn about the lawn, collated in the wet turned to pulp and 'post and worm fodder and we weeded through the best of them as if we might find tulip bulbs, could flog 'em to wealthy men who'd give us sacks of cherry stones and steal my heart a wonderment, where the lushness of this land rich with scent of nutmeg and blossom and daffo-hills abundant could bear down, where you'll howl that old song, stung with addiction and contractual linguistic sensation spelt out for the simpler of us sat amongst bluebells, and if you look closely you'll see a sore woman's stick house, a crow collecting branches-broken for a satisfactory nest and I might tell you of petals scattered before the May time breeze or the small person who cannot be seen for they have climbed a tree or a brass knocker on a middle class home that rattles long after the slam and you can hammer your poems deep into my bones where they'll become entrenched, soaked up into my bread based being only to be relived, revived and relished when I am, again, alone.
In-between made up cities and their imagined sunsets,
under a cherry blossom canopy, slowly undressing,
by a big door with the Devil's prick as a knocker,
in amongst the spiraling flies and the cries of reunited flocks,
the spot where the rumps dent the ground, due to be filled with cement to mark The Deadbeats of Plymouth, just like the Beatles; just like the dead.
Smoking nutmeg and listening to music reviews, guided tors and intimate photographs, two long-haired rockers telling tales, and a sobering musing of a manual titled, 'how to make impressions'.
On the wall behind where the graffiti reads, 'Julius Caesar was a dick' grow ears of moss, capturing every word as it erupts out of lips and back into the cosmic, carefully scribing them to preserve a moment of recalled moments.