A quiet colour for a quiet room.
I have been looking at paint swatches:
Empty perfume bottle.
Twilight, with a hint.
Lost keys, found.
Footsteps on the beach.
Book, left out in the sun.
On your knees in prayer.
Breakfast’s lukewarm tea.
It is not actually all that quiet
all our sweet sixteen year old dreams are
raucous from a needle in the corner
and I am alone
Weatherman skips on my left
and the devil sits to my right
Please be good
And I watch scorpio as the
zephyr flashes past me
it’s quiet here
where peaceful lives
she says it’s
where the leaves are
jealous as we
jump in the pile of trash bags
that used to hold string
and old metal cans
but now only the rustling is able to listen
to the forgotten trembling
of a year forgotten
This earth where your feet fell remembers you still.
These trees have cast aside their skin
and embraced the world's displacement with
their quivering arms, filling the gaps
of your absence with loosely locked limbs.
These paths veiled in shadow are wild
now; angry shoots drape old ways where
the forest overthrows cement in anguish
at the loss. The secret trail is
hidden. Where we once worshipped the
weeds that decorated our meadow,
I mourn the ravaging of soil from
our holy ground, imprisoned by stone.
These waters race and roar,
tumbling. This river writhes through
time to find you; failing, it hurls forwards
and throws itself upon the rocks.
These infinite stars once stapled
the dark, welcoming our defiance.
They glitter now, mocking the tangled
We track your absence in the silence
that has rolled in with the clouds
and settled like fog. It has infiltrated
our homes; suffocating.
No shadow of you remains, yet this earth
Where your feet once fell
Remembers you still.