Past rhyme,
Past sorrows’ knell and joy’s disdain,
Only the parched blue breaking,
The vermilion rings of twilight
Beckoning
To eye or heart
On the crest of an oath or cry
For the banished bell and pain
Remembering
My songs
Sodden and limp –
These sands were not the place
To raise a conch, to rue
A withering, to sink
Into a famished ecstasy
I return
To the refuge of windows,
The comfort of drawers
Half-open, half-closed,
To the landscape of scattered cloth,
To the crusts on a plate – perhaps
There was also a bit of wine
And the mischief of simple jewellery
In our disarray, I muse
And taking care
With my coffee, again
I step outside