March 2010
11 posts
7 tags
I’ve always felt that this morning ought to be a single word, like thistle. Thismorning.
Thisevening, Thisafternoon and Thismorning. They could be three Norse brothers, the wild and ice-bred sons of Mother Night:
Thismorning slips the sun from beneath his mother’s bed. She has told him not to touch it while she is out wandering in the world, but Thismorning is wily and willful, and...
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i shed my coat
my winter skin
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for a year i became a snail and lived in wrinkled silence, wandering soft and helpless against all things sharp, hid from cold in the fragrant earth, loved rain when it washed away the sting of salt, and through summer, hermaphroditic and ageless, i wrote words on the world in slow and glistening lines
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we live
in flame
and slowly
we burn
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the body-warmth of our bed
it’s a cave warm without chill
huddled together
primal, and breathing our dreams
that beat back the savage dawn
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this is the hour that your mind turns
too tired to be nimble with ideas but
too much in love with the dark to sleep
and so you conjure phantoms
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This morning was the colour of wind.
