Flood

 

The river is in flood

 

He stands on the higher path

and watches

the fallen branch

eddy then drift

away from the bank

 

She hasn’t

    spoken to him

for three

                 weeks

 

The longest

     they’ve ever gone

  without

                   words

 

Even in the

           times

       when he would race to the phone

   in some

                 tropical

                              business-hotel

 

The crook of the bough

rotates and rises

like the elbow

of a weary swimmer

 

So he listens

 

Hears something

in the silent flow

and wonders whether

this debris

will reach the sea

 

or if

      somewhere downstream

 

there will be

an obstacle

to halt its noiseless

swirling journey

Receipt

 

for the

last eleven

months

I have

been like

that receipt

in your purse

for the

skirt

that you

bought

and was

never

quite

sure of

and

the second

time you

wore it

you got

chocolate

on it’s hem

so that now

it can

never

go back

Indoor Fireworks

 

 

     “I didn’t say

     that I

 

  don’t

 

     love you”

 

And I try  to trace

a truth

 

within her eyes

as she speaks

 

But the words leap

like eight

 

fiery little

jumping-jacks

 

on a not quite dusk

bonfire evening

 

And I don’t know

whether

 

I should

delight

 

in their

intangible incandescence

 

or wait

 

to try

and pick up

 

the dead

dew-bound husks

 

when the next

day breaks