Dress Rehearsal

White had always served me well:
Improving the faults of my genetic code
De-sizing the breasts, slimming the thighs.

Harold said he loved every inch of me
He died a happy man.
I married in white, never considered myself
to be angelic; colour has such a transforming effect.
To a certain degree.
-It cannot veil the face of death.

From the tube of toothpaste with its insides squeezed
out, hanging meekly over the rim of the holder,
to the apple that shrivels on the sill
visuals of what’s to come.

Why worry about what to wear vanity fuels the living
Will those that mourn mind what drapes this skeleton form
Should I cover up to lessen the impact?
Black seems to formal
I first made love in a dress of sleek silk darkness
I remember how come morning it lay on the bed
Like a naughty child that had just broken a vase.

Yellow is far to bright for such an occasion
Red is blood, a colour too close to my heart
I go with white, today it is sympathetic
It falls over me like a just spent lover
Loose, but loving.

Tomorrow may see a change,
maybe lilac or mauve
Harold would wait hours whilst I dressed
Patiently perusing the papers,
Humming or happily watching.
Yet will Death?

The Well

Long lengthy pulls to raise the bucket, past walls of damp and dark.
Each tug tightening rope to hand
in the silence of brief pause
Water spills, then splashes down into the never seen
Father, hauls with the ease of mature hand
His sweat, sweetened from old spice
Gathers in the grooves of his furrowed face.
Mother is cooking, not seen but smelt.
Flowers rise on the window sill,
a mixed bunch of chosen beauty
Picked alone, in the privacy of dawn.
Where she coasts between fuchsias and magnolia
Unbound from apron and working attire.
I rest under the apple tree, sipping cloudy lemonade
Swirling my finger in the cool pool of citrus
Forming a whirlpool, watching cubed ice twirl.
These young bones admit defeat, yet he throttles on,
An ancient machine maintained by a love unspoken.

It is here, here where the love blossoms-
Where the pool of memory first begins to fill
Where it is clear and unmarred from the
Murkiness of old age- This moment as he strains
From the haul of water, catching my gaze and smiling
Stopping briefly to wipe the sweat from his brow.
As mother bends and blows gently upon heat softened biscuits
Her face a summary of affection.
These are the scent of late summer rain,
The song that envisions the past so vividly it pains
you to allow it to end. It is this normal
Breath of family life that will exhale long
after the lungs have failed.
And as the sun retreats
and father obeys the dinner call
we stream inside, leaving the memory settle
Till they have both long gone
wherein it will rise again like the pail
heavy and full, heavy and full.

Dawns Orb

Behind black clouds
The moon, half consumed
Struggles to enlighten
The already dark streets.
Like a bloodied
Beaten
Missionary
Seeking forgiveness
Beyond fists
And feet.

It’s not mine to own
Yet in the silence of others sleep
Light lends its ear,
And in-between tired sigh
I give my confessions
To the mute cloud caught priest.

Do the shimmers on the puddles
Tell tales,
Safe in the knowledge
That the pace of city life
Silences all that is said,

It's a game, a mocking of man,
This bright orb,
Burning and boiling
With the eternal memories
Of horror and beauty
Death and resistance.

See how its turns the caged animal
Into a innocent porcelain doll,
In the right light,
And perfect of positions,

Mock, mock, mocking

Blood can lure the most fearful eye
When glimmering into dusks fading paint
Till comes the sun,
Congealing and staining
The place of wrongly timed exit.

Go now, shelter behind the cloud
Absorb and understand
The evil that scans beneath you,
You have heard my words,
Let them translate
In a petrol rainbow puddle
For isn’t this all man made?