Alicia Clow

Washed-up

An oil slick washed up
In my veins last night:
Lust drunk breathlessness
Inspired the hand that drew a new track
On the map of sinew and thread.
The receding tide took nothing back,
But left remnants
Of well known household cleaner
And childhood half-lived.
Cravings for moon-distance
And weighted hopes
Linger in sickening limbs.
This is crueller than cancer,
The brutal caress
That touched needles   
Filled with expansive nothingness,
Each one leeching away sentiment
Like an autopsy.

I won’t make old bones,
Or be left to sit and rust,
Moaning away my days
For those who were long dead:
Amen, lest we forget.

Tell me, can you hear me yet?



April Showers

I sit, outsider to the scene,
On the corner of Park Avenue pedestrians stand,
Grim and static at ‘Don’t Walk’ signs,
Oblivious to the vertical,
The breakfast jazz, the traffic…
Grey skies open onto the masses below;
Raindrops find those without umbrellas,
Bounce off curbs and into drains.
Nothing remains still.
The streets awash,
I find myself

Thinking back to that day,
How different it was
When rain pelted us in icy blasts.
Walking up the narrow path to the churchyard,
Concrete edifices marred
The landscape. We stood there,
Sinking into muddy ground.
Thinking of how we were going to fill
The obvious void. I still
Remember how I looked down the valley
Towards the city. It bore
No resemblance to before.






 
 

 

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