Clarity,
Office 17622,
PO Box 6945,
London.
W1A 6US
United Kingdom
Phone/ Voicemail:
+44 (0)20 3287 3053 (UK)
+1 (561) 459-4758 (US).
The charisma transcending the attempt
to survive as wind beats down the fence
between black stubble
and the well-worn track,
rain patters against the tiles
and the shadow clings to every square inch
of skin
accrues like the ray from the furthest star:
“I have much to give you.”
No ordinary sound could emulate
“I want you to be with me”
as if meant by someone
who tastes the day’s warmth
before light identities with a solar flare,
feels the cut
that separates a thrushes outpouring from a healthy ear
and regains composure
when the humming bird tips over.
Clouds on the horizon
couldn’t compare
with the dream I’ll decide to leave
when grass turns a brighter shade,
the pigeon realises a deeper grey
and the aspiration
to discover what lies beyond the tinge
of pink uplifts a way to support my ascent.
Ink will reach only as far as the amount splashed
while attempting to record the flight
intent on keeping up
with one who could discover the source of flight.
Oil scented
with spice and flowers spread over loving couples
will not deter the breath
from taking in white mist on a frozen peak,
an eye discerning a traveller with a taste
for harmony and the heart daring to abide in a garden.
A burning stick thrust
into a stream and allowed to steam
doesn’t obscure a handful
of snow presented as a gift, a wanderer
who stopped
for a chat remarking on how pleasant the day was,
a blossom alone
and ready
to await its disappearance into the mass of colour
when the rest of the tree bursts into spring.
You may seem an eon away
from where my hopes rise
ultimately,
impoverishment will not grow beyond the arc
between this life
and the next,
simplicity will make the sun’s rays clear
and doubt a little easier to forgo
I’ll see you
over my shoulder linking your overarching vision
with my unsteady hand, surpassing what I can’t see.
I love you.
Under a spreading bough
undiminishing rays pouring into a glade
one dressed in blue with a splash of yellow
who turns a twig to inspect the scratches
and bruises on its underside,
and still holds it
despite its flaws,
raises his face
(or her bright eyes)
and declares:
“I love you, too.”
to survive as wind beats down the fence
between black stubble
and the well-worn track,
rain patters against the tiles
and the shadow clings to every square inch
of skin
accrues like the ray from the furthest star:
“I have much to give you.”
No ordinary sound could emulate
“I want you to be with me”
as if meant by someone
who tastes the day’s warmth
before light identities with a solar flare,
feels the cut
that separates a thrushes outpouring from a healthy ear
and regains composure
when the humming bird tips over.
Clouds on the horizon
couldn’t compare
with the dream I’ll decide to leave
when grass turns a brighter shade,
the pigeon realises a deeper grey
and the aspiration
to discover what lies beyond the tinge
of pink uplifts a way to support my ascent.
Ink will reach only as far as the amount splashed
while attempting to record the flight
intent on keeping up
with one who could discover the source of flight.
Oil scented
with spice and flowers spread over loving couples
will not deter the breath
from taking in white mist on a frozen peak,
an eye discerning a traveller with a taste
for harmony and the heart daring to abide in a garden.
A burning stick thrust
into a stream and allowed to steam
doesn’t obscure a handful
of snow presented as a gift, a wanderer
who stopped
for a chat remarking on how pleasant the day was,
a blossom alone
and ready
to await its disappearance into the mass of colour
when the rest of the tree bursts into spring.
You may seem an eon away
from where my hopes rise
ultimately,
impoverishment will not grow beyond the arc
between this life
and the next,
simplicity will make the sun’s rays clear
and doubt a little easier to forgo
I’ll see you
over my shoulder linking your overarching vision
with my unsteady hand, surpassing what I can’t see.
I love you.
Under a spreading bough
undiminishing rays pouring into a glade
one dressed in blue with a splash of yellow
who turns a twig to inspect the scratches
and bruises on its underside,
and still holds it
despite its flaws,
raises his face
(or her bright eyes)
and declares:
“I love you, too.”
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