Intermission
Softly you come in,
where the afternoon melts;
a sigh in step -
the ways to make you see,
expect what weeks
number out – the line
of summer fading on my back;
an orange press of glass
and the pour of your shoulder.
Our fingers twist in the cord;
the hiss of dark pursed
and stung on the lip, folding in sleeps
of purple snuffed smoke.
What charms these are
to brush the tired sands away -
almond strokes
and thick litmus colours,
a path up to Saturn
and his circling arms;
cures for what feathers behind
the eye still tick.
Leave the working streets,
the clock that rushes,
for cocooned – we are here to be.
Francine
Tue 13th Nov 2012 04:54
Lovely : )
Full of interesting and sentimental imagery!