Wednesday, 10 December 2014

Any storm

Your eyes find cluster constellations
that mine can't quite map, yet.
Smoke fills the evening sky
as Jupiter shines down
on the icy bogside;
december's first night.

Ink on skin finds points
of no return;
moons in every phase to come.
Talk of caravans and lists
on damp paper
fill your kitchen
with hope and confusion.

And then you ask me
for 'Scaffolding',
and I know our wall 
will weather any storm;
any storm that comes.

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