Into the Walled Garden HTML version
dried by the sleeping sun,
tired, yawn ing,
K strokes my hand,
ready for bed.
The Sound of Love
I love the sound of your voice.
The sharpness of it can cut skin.
You have a sense of the ridiculous,
an edge that brims over with laughter
in the dullest company.
In pain, you refuse to admit defeat.
You speak loudly, with vowels
that reveal deep valleys full of sunlight.
Yo ur voice places you, grounds you,
ma kes you irresistible, despite my moods
and sheer bloody-minded fugues.
You s mile your words at me,
doubling the blow with deep black pupils
that suck me into your sound.
My nerves crackle with the e xc ite ment
of my na me being ca lled.
You could stand in front of me
with your bags packed
and I would love you as much
for saying goodbye as I do now
for the offer of a cup of tea in the
greyness of a rainy English morning.
Bottoming a surge wave, spume drenched,
lashed to the bow seat, skin tight,
salt bleached, facing a cold war wa ll of water,
sucked into the barrel, rising,
cresting a spitting cobra?s dripping fangs,
this ripped and torn shell of a boat
launches herself across a smothering grey mist
on a barracking ocean, and blind
in the roaring dark, we h it something solid
at the height of the storm.
A hand on my arm, a grasping e mbrace,