'Unnameable Things' for The Clearing

'I have found the words for butterflies, in my native tongue, and I am drawing their lines on my insides. I am ready, now, to speak of unnameable things.'

                                 Words for The Clearing at  Little Toller Books on their site now.

This essay was incredibly moving to write, and the fact it was written for this deeply inspiring site has filled me with such gratitude and courage.

Rust

We talk of rust and tin
and a five year plan
as rain pounds down on an old convent roof.
I remember you from a time long gone,
on a street at the top of where we both lay claim.

Your face- weathered, misted; beautiful,
haunts the deepest parts of me.
Eyes- bluer than cloudless skies,
greyer than industrial steel; 
majestic in the Autumn haze.

Rust spills out of cracks in the world
and I imagine the rest of our days
spent under decaying sheds,
in the West.

For * N o r t h *

* S O R R O W * is only when you're waiting for the light to come back. 

* b e a u t y i n d e c a y *

b r o o k e p a r k

there is a pink-footed light
spilling out of brooke park
against the grey haze of evening. 

you would have been 100 today
and the world has exhaled
softly, 
secretly;in hope.

I smell the rain above this historic city
and wait for the wind to come;
from the flames.

Pewter

Awakening to the metallic chatter of late starlings
on Rosemount's mossy rooftops,
the night's pewter veil lifts slowly with the fog.

An old garden at the bottom of a seaside hill,
derelict, abandoned; beautiful,
and all around tourists capture loosening
moments on film.

Loneliness crept through my bones
and dragged me into the ivy,
and there he was, sound echoing out
in that folkloric way
-woodsman/ bird; woodpecker.

I allowed the red of him
to reflect out
the last of the scene's winter rays,
before the morning came. 

Bog-bleater

We walk streets- filled with rain and Christmas.
as the fog fades away; gently.
Words-not quite shared, never fully hidden-
hold sway in the bog.
A green kitchen- dark, still, autumnal;
filled with honesty.

I open up old wounds, as the radio plays,
too quiet for our eager ears.
Your eyes-pure/true/bright,
catch me out, as November drizzle
falls softly down,
on heavy coats.

Meirge

Last night I dreamed
of heavy rain
-decaying, rhythmic, beautiful,
pounding on an old tin roof.
That northern sky, dark as buried mines,
filled slowly with rusty green dancers;
every lamp in the house was lit.