Space to Talk

Image result for moon perigee

Brother Little Rat and I

Crouching in the red line zone,

Close – but not enough –

To a place that, in fevered times,

We know as home.

At our backs a cooling wind;

First hint that summer is leavin’.

Behind glass-and-glass security

Business cats with dispassionate smiles

Have space to talk about making more space.

Sailing loose and far above,

Eastern dragon-god’s big-eye moon

Sees it all, grins happily

And dips playfully behind

A thin curtain of cloud.

The Moon Is …

Unblinking, coal-gem ringed,

The moon is a leopard’s stalking-death eye:

Cold-hot fixed intensity

In the star and cloud printed

Flung wide and far cloak of a sky;

Stretched full-tight on the cruel tenterhooks

Of heaven’s Frames.

Claws that have known blood (and will again) –

Sheathed and still in predator pads –

Rest in balanced pre ambush assassin tension

On civilisation’s compromised horizons.

Twitchless attack-habituated tail is iron disciplined,

White intelligent intuit-whiskers gauge the air; dividing

Life’s remaining brief clocks

Into ever smaller periods

A Dark Grail

Playful, wilfully strong winds

That recently raked the long-dead, cold ash seas

Of January’s long-dark moon of passion

Snap open, draw out a banner I

Have only seen in dreamscapes:

A dark grail framed by shooting stars;

Now lift a jackdaw effortlessly

And fling it across the arcs

Of playground world and

New-opened, wide blue envelope.

There’s a harsh, savage-code joy scream

Torn from the bird’s bandit throat;

“You ain’t going to be born again,

Turn away from your second-chances illusion

And be all of the selves you need to be

Before your bright rainbow burns only

Slow, old gold-treasure memories.

Find the garden in the desert,

The music in the river,

The time beyond the clock.”

 

Big Apple Come-Down

Ghost-blonde, in green,

There, then not

In this Babel state-of-mind tower:

Brought in, carried away

By trader winds.

Is this how life goes by:

Vertical sections

Crumbling to dust

As a billion pilgrims

Walk by, not knowing

Their own moon

Is fast-falling?

No Challenge.

 

So far away,

Yet close enough,

Those northern mountains

Of the young-spring moon

Hide us well –

My wolf brother and I .

Sixteen horses?

So few?

Five times that

Would be no challenge.

Hear our voices,

Between the

Wind and thunder,

In the bear-claw nighthours.

I was here:

Know my name

To Devour the Moon.

There is, apparently a legend that predicts

That, sometime soon, the lunatics,

Released from wasp-paper grey cells

Will endeavour to devour the orange-moon,

Swallow it whole, tear its

Changing face to tiny shreds, Continue reading

The Crocus Road

The small, out-of-history,

Far away lights in these

Big, darkening skies make

Reassuring noises; the shadows

Do not clash and threaten.

The horizon is a pale-line queen

Swooning beneath a ripped-tissue

Curl of early-spring-promise  moon.

The crocus road is longer, much longer

Than I could have expected and I start

To fall towards a gentle, butterfly death.