ALL FOOL’S DAY
Someone who believes the voices in their head
Are worth listening to,
Who shapes a voiceless howl
And paints peacock the grey goose feathers.
Bitter or sweet is its confection,
But flown, not owned.
A convection of breath muttered,
Cooling fast to silent shuffling.
A spark to set heads alight.
A bird at dawn joining in, joining in.
So very modern, so social, so angst.
Shaped anger, a certain brittle brilliance
(Too many pills, too many movies).
Judge not, lest ye be judged.
My colours are earth ochre and mud:
They blur and smudge and taste
As bitter sweet as old iron.
Red is not better than blue.
Nothing but our breath
Is not borrowed,
And that is shared with ghosts.
If I pick a posy of weeds
And small insects
It shall likely be thrown away
By evening, change within a day
To wilt and slime and compost.
A river of muscular words,
Knowing their trajectory,
Slick with fitting exercise,
Polished, glancing slyly
At themselves in mirrors.
Mine: are orphaned, skulk
Adolescent in corners
Wishing they were anything,
Anywhere but here, ignored,
Misunderstood, awkward
With self and not-self,
Ready to punch
And run away screaming.
Small curses and bitterness,
A sweet green wormwood of words,
Unfashionable as Homer and the ‘Seventies.
Nothing if not shaped air,
A moments held tight and wriggled free,
Regardless of reputation
And good sense.
Outside my window
The world tips towards a hidden river.
Every tree and field a palimpsest of seasons.
Boughs thick with time shudder and bend,
Hold their taut silhouettes.
Tangled, indistinguishable are their roots,
Their eloquent green tongues.
A patch of blue sky
The shape of continents
Slides across the sky,
Dissipating like smoke
Slowly turning.
First drops of April rain.
—
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simonhlilly 