Tuesday, 19 June 2012

Simon Ward

This is a picture and poem from a book of Poetry I finished in 2009. They are about the sense of place.

Unburnt Flesh

My emollient tears have glued my lids
  from last night.

My head is still numb on the right side
  from listening less well.

The shock of her yawn when I tried so hard-
  but she really was tired.

She is a naked flame,
I am unburnt flesh.

Her tears bled
like the tired ink stains
  on my faltering fingers,

with fisted alarm wrung on her face -
  (her wrinkled brow told me that!)

The sigh,
  an ignominious communication came too,

I ignored,
  waiting for time to pass

but she really was tired.

My fire guttered
as coarse nailed the old plank
  spat life from the chimney mouth.

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