I miss the tenderness
of being near you
your body soaked
in star and sea light
the sighs
from stroked shores
all my taps are dripping
the sun froths and flares
silver poplars shiver
with the echo of light
wind gathers in the trees
scarred skin
doesn’t collapse
when carved
close the gate gentle
make it chime
close it like a delicate thing
as if just leaving
looking in
upon a sleeping child
isn’t that how hearts
should be handled
footsteps made faint
by grass
no knock required
no doorbell
rattling the rooms
just the soft cry
of a rusted hinge
you’re the last light of the year
the late light of the day
that touches the old fire
that still clings to the tips of the trees
in my haunted park
you’re the moth-eaten moths of memory
the torn tapestry of my life
its seams of moonlight
scars become skin
your heart
more scar than tissue now
you’re scarring the scars
sky packed too tight
bruised blue
needs to split itself open
thunder the wedge
hammered into the heart
of the stone
of the sky
took shelter
in the shadows
beyond the lamps
you’re the green fronds of fire
that grouts the cobbled back streets of my heart
the bright butterflies still being born
from the braided shadows of brambles
blossom become sentient
you’re the leaves that foxtrot
with the tatters of a plastic bag
in the blustery corner of my deserted courtyard
become young again
twirled by the world-weary wind
that still remembers how to dance
the cry of church bells
across the city
serpents of scent
wrapped round your wrists
the horizon howled
snow swept the streets