Love Poem no. 63

We live in a sea-shaken house, my woman and I.

The deep voices of Wales shiver their way

Across the channel,

Splitting stacks,

Breaking years

Into months, days

Hours and seconds fall, try to dash themselves

On the blasted twist-rocks beneath our door

As we kill time

And splinter clocks

Small springs fly

To cut our hands.

They build bridges, don’t they? Great white

Stretches lift the coughing wheels of men;

Spinning miles

And pushing her

England back

Toward the beach

Where awful bones washed up and slowly

Turned to stone, long before his lotus feet

May have walked

In green and

Promised paces.

Maybe not

And maybe never, we have little love for tales

Which kick off calendars; anno one, anno two –

From our cracking bed

Breath is, is

In and out,

Ribs rise and fall

As water licks our morning feet, making miniature

Dances telling the old songs slow, smoothing flint and

Cutting through

As storm grey wings

Cry feathers from

The gulls all day

And night… at night. We hear the waves knocking,

Knock knocking at our walls. We wake to swim

Through tangles,

Kelp and arms

And lips, of course

To call the birds –

For there are singers in the strata, gaping redthroats

That shout morning through the end-days, with beaks

Sharpened on shells

Turning oysters

In the sands,

Sink deep our heels.

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About Benjamin Norris

Published writer of short stories, long stories, poems. Well received art critic and cultural commentator for Berlin magazines. Collaborator with operatic societies. Co-writer of fictional historic psycholinguistic journals. Lecturer of architecture and art history at a Budapest University. View all posts by Benjamin Norris

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