Commonword Blogs

Then rain arrives
and salves the ground,
saves the sound
of snare drum days.

Unbeknown lengths
blunt chocks of steps
a sky of hearts
with rope for clouds.

Resist this as hill
after hill persists,
cuts of breeze plague
those tethered floors

where comfy lovers
come and go, weaving
their wistful ignorance
with ligatured ways.

I dream of swimming
through noon seconds,
I dream of swimming
to the tinder banks.

Gingham spread flat on Albion’s map -
toy banks abandoned; fashions of plastic
carried-on down cat walk streets for stock takes;
main routes wisened off with cotton wool wire
while shadows admire the shires from wardrobe depths
whispering spells for the housebound under a contrail jail of sky.