winter sun turns polished brass to golden honey on the wall.
hearts break at the memories that stick,
flimsy ones a nervous mind fashions of rags & threads
that it hoards in mountainous ruin.
our stories breathe without living then,
they speak in hoarse wind whispers,
for the benefit of ears pressed to moth holes.
your hands seemed so large then,
they hold so little now i wonder where it is
that thing they have built is hidden.
we have forgotten how to speak,
words winding round sun lit spires,
coiling like Eve’s serpent
beneath the tree we would all rather forget,
the one we never carved our names into,
or the one you planted before your children were born.
on the grass below sunlight dances with shadow
& our ethereal hearts, our feather light feet.
the dark clots around collective sadness,
presses it’s inky palms into faces.
phosphene burns behind our eyes,
sinister in the daytime, so much faerie dust
in the hush of shared bedrooms.
early rhododendron blooms look like clusters
of deflated, pink balloons in sheaths of green.
clouds fall like insubstantial blankets we share
but belong to no one, our childhood amnesia hides
beneath them, it’s tiny laughter, redolent & unashamed.