The wind tumbles down,
the soft fissures of the earth
unfolding like climates,
a heat just begun,
the shine of the road at midday
but unable to trouble truth.
It has been this way for ten years now,
the sky falling, the proud clouds
gathering their rain
so as not to forget, the wind
still tumbling down,
a calico summer expected
as though meant.
And all of these things colour,
colour the filling of our days
when sunshine deadens
and the cold nights
lose their moon's lustre,
forsaken, almost human,
the stars terrible lovers of darkness.
The window gibbers in the wind,
it has nothing else to do.
I say nothing, it will go away
without concern or prayer,
vanishing with a whisper.
Ten years and the misprint of love
endures, mentioning pleasures
that emptied themselves years ago.
Now you paint your lips
as though a liturgy,
the dark moon bitter at such memories.
Soon the moon will wane
and then the morning come,
everything begun again
as though dreamt or remembered,
the one love lost,
the other love gone to history,
imaginary as the antics of those
who unburden themselves
with truths that come from something holy,
the last god left expecting bitter daylights,
the two of us silent, approaching morning.
If you've any comments on his poems, John Cornwall
would be pleased to hear from you.