Stark strangers loiter to scavenge thoughts once hid;
both now bustle briskly under this fair poplar
my muse, she blows keenly to rustle up these tired
parchments – not scratched e’er since autumn
closed its eyes to shades of green. Before I woke
under dreaming spires, I wrote a sonnet for you.
Me thinks to keep it safe in heart, away from her prying eyes
and strangers’ judgement, at least until summer comes.
The curl of her body
becomes the skyline
and gives sunset to the sands’ shine,
settled dust like.
I love the politics of her body,
freeflowing like waves;
temperamental, often smooth
and, like her, to be taken with a pinch of salt.
A Quadrille is a 44 word poem.
smell so sweet
in tolerant nature
when within its walls
lie death and victims’ cries?
To scent this growth would be criminal, yet
we do, and we douse it with water – the flame
that gives it fragrance –
and when it blossoms wide enough to flourish,
we are as doomed as a black thumb should be.
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Picture: Paul Militaru. Thankyou.
Angels’ humble prints
leave us mindful of our lives
and its harder plains
the strangest dreams;
the straddled, muddy gateways
to our wilder streams
at their seams.
They brim with
tepid in colour,
but rampant in verve.
They’re marching o’er still acres,
heart to heart,
trickling like viscose life
A quadrille is a 44 word poem.