Satin Sheet

ic_1519412204_780x_false Pic source:  Mountain Journal.

(06.12.2010)

Kneeling down on her soft bed, my eyes follow
hollow sounding, icy trails from hot breath;
my hands hold the deep, voluptuous curves
of an ice maiden, languishing e’er long this coldest
of winters.
A contradiction; how easy she melts
at the first caress and too soon my heart aches
for callous black ice to keep forever the footprints
of yesteryear, sadly only imprinted forever in memory –
how quickly they disappear in warmer times.
Is it by tender touch and passionate farewell, or does the iconic
Lady of Winter, as yet unloved, simply
shake off her shrill wrap to vanish once more?

Spirited Away

DSC00418.JPG

Picture: One of my arts/crafts pieces that I make and sell for my charity CRUK.   Ghost peacock painted on heavy slate.

Azure lawns cry,
stuck in the past
like dew tears
on dampened stones.
Sometimes
the darkness can be still be seen,
held tightly
between each
raw nerve,
each blade
of black grass
on which
dancers mop up tears,
waltzing the air
with ghost like peacock
fans over their broken faces;
pallid feathers
hover like wisps
of winter taking
one, last, look back.
Its memories
spill over
where those peacocks
once ran wild,
their rainbow fans
since crumbled to dust
to cover all that must
stay hidden while
Azure lawns cry.

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Coming Home

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Picture: A R Quinton

From waterfalls to stepping stones, meandering
across history’s bones, I am halted by a sound,
the sound of mandolins.

Sinewy and tempered, the strings play their song,
accompanied by a chorus made up of flocking doves.
I stroll and become enamoured before succumbing
to temptation and falling in love with fate. Tumbling heathers
bow and lend to gentle footsteps, crooning whilst retracing
a long forgotten voice.

I rest a while in contemplation and let myself be trampled
by hordes of folk returning, who hear the strumming
soothes of a sound, a sound from deep within.

 

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