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Sunday, January 28, 2007

Childlight

Brides for Spring

When we were six or seven and used to notion
Father Christmas at the chest of all windows,
we'd court the swirling snow that laid
the mud of the roads to virgin bare.

Too excited to sleep we'd catch first light
in its first dance, that first bright before so much
contact with waking things, in mornings like those
our childhood was a magical, all-weather affair.

Those antique winters, sparkling white vases
smashed by our footsteps, toy gunshot wounds in
white earth quickened to become a feathered mess,
wondering if we stepped on pavement cracks below.

Our childish play always a drop too much for
the light crust of snow, porcelain sheets lay broken
in our rusty mud zigzag-trails, a pattern of
crazy scribbles showing where our feet had met.

As mother brewed the soup to thaw out wet fingers,
we'd punch puddles to hear them crunch like ginger
biscuits, and search out for berries, fingers making
little snowfalls crumble down sugar-dusty hedgerows.

And under the ruddy eye of chestnuts we'd run home
through a dancelight of dew crystals, veiling
white fields as brides waiting for spring,
children shouting rhymes forgetting to say goodbye.

___________________

A Certain Kind of Bridge

I was always a certain kind of bridge,
thoughts passing between worlds,
loading and unloading, journeying,

in the summer months I'd listen to
semi-foreign tongues warming ears
by a dramatist sun, the world as yellow
as the bricks of a mediterranean mosque,

in the winter I'd be mesmerised by
Christmas tree lightshine, thoughts
uninhibited and deep as burgundy wine,
the world greeny-white as cotton fields,

there was always a certain kind of bridge,
thoughts passing between worlds,
journeying, connecting the two.

Read more of my poems >>

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