Harvest

The remains of this day

creak and settle

like timbers around my bed

like boughs abound my head

sighing into steel coils

and old bird feathers.

 

I open the window

before I go to rest

so that the smell of dew

will bring a hint of you

I rise to catch it

before the robins do.

 

for Rachel

© christine DINGLEY 2012

Advertisements

QWERTY : a tragic love story

The marching of thoughts sounds like Morse Code

lined up against the measuring tape

and black tape to telegraph

photograph them.

 

They are banished to a vacuum in a queue

though is it a void if there is something

even two ‘you’s in there

to fill it?

 

The queue and the double you collide

mid-clash and are suspended

in      mid         air

stepping on each other’s feet.

 

And while the embrace is glorious, eternal

a meeting of fairytale fate and chance,

the universe stands still

and that is not good.

 

While they are entwined there can be no

questions: who? what? when? where?

the all important why?

No answers.

 

So I disentangle the ‘q’ and the ‘w’ and keep on typing.