Beloved

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Sauntering at the foot of the hillside
like the Parthenon’s last defence,
guarded by the equinox, but soon he will relent.
I see you there ambushed by thought
in sweet, contemplative stance
with your confounded theories flowing
as your wild locks and robes
once flowed over me when we danced.
Place me, an equation, among those others you crave;
I bare the belly of a wild, wild slave,
who appeals to a heart that smoulders each night
beneath tired laurels on resting brow in taught moonlight.
I send love to ponder for me my soul’s
intentions, its aching form moved not by
philosophical invention, but by sweet sandals
to feet that gives stillness time,
yet you stand aloof in your thoughts,
drinking mortals’ wine.
Drink only to me and to those surly gods,
think of me among textured shard
of breakthroughs and euphoria, composure
and glimmers mid passing, take a sip of my wine
sated from grapes of love, everlasting.
I am a weaver, unbeknownst to you – a mere muse
here at your hem working my fervour –
it is, I, the wicked one.
Callous infamy lives in my moral’s den.
I was cast out for embracing a mortal’s sin
that forever wanders in the footsteps
now kneeling before me; only you can
overshadow their accursed witchery, and I will fear not
for when you look down to see reflected in my eyes
the shine that is you, my beloved,
my Erasmus – from then on, you will only ever
be thinking of me.

Out Late

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‘Let’s wear out some memories,’ he said,

‘let’s kiss more

and use these old shoes

to relive some moments from great books

lost after midnight.

She didn’t know what he was talking about.

‘Dancing and gold bangles

clinging to each other

and night time strolls,

earrings and coffee sips.’

He didn’t know what she was talking about.

They looked blankly at each other

and couldn’t help notice

that the bus had gone without them.

Learned Behaviours are Treatable

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Could we plunge our hands
into damaged sinews’
frayed blood vessels
and find warmth in hidden spirit?
Have a tug of war and pull out hatred,
intolerance, indifference and anger,
to find the stuff we possess
but which remains hidden – buried
with the goodness we were born with –
tucked inside our own medicine chest.
There are things there to help us heal,
bind wounds, accept and love,
even force untainted  oxygen to
cancers benign at birth
but which grow steadily malignant
once fed from the mouths
of devoted kin and a world rapidly
oozing its centre.

Burnt Orange

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Silent autumn’s hands are winding,
Curling up others in another sleep –
Sweep me a pyre, statuesque.
Winds come and merge from all four corners,
Finally they meet undanced as yet.

Crisped bronzed fires are set ablaze,
Browned slaves are tossed and cast adrift –
Swept but sculpted, arabesque.
All of the fallen, recipient mourners,
Are deftly ushered, to their kismet.

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