We Were Kingfishers
Our Sunday walks were my favourite,
though my legs ached and you were hungover.
A smudge of turquoise vibrated on a bullrush -
a kingfisher, you said, I half listened, it was
reflected in your eyes and muddied with hazel.
You pointed out cornflowers, anemones and
hibiscus. Lithe stems shivered as we passed and
shed clouds of petals that rained sapphires
upon our weary bodies. The blood orange sun
stained our skin as we walked towards the lake.
It’s not much further, you said and I thought I saw
a wing quiver out of place. At the water’s edge,
I looked into the iridescent glass and saw a pair
of kingfishers looking back.
Your wings opened, a chasm I couldn’t cross.
My wings aren’t ready! I shouted, but it was too
late and you danced towards the sun -
a turquoise smudge.
Eclipsing Binaries
Wild with tiredness I search the Onyx skies for signs of your fire.
A meander through winking relatives brings me to the belly of the galaxy
where two stars sit side by side in parallel splendour inextricable
in their gravitational dance around the kaleidoscopic sky like fish zipping between tides -
At just the right angle, the fainter star is eclipsed by the brighter one
Red giant/white dwarf
And I remember when I watched you sleep fearful of the second star that would
dim your brightness.
Through telescopic eyes I watch you emerge from the shadow
bathed in your brother’s phosphorescence
continuing your journey around an unknown centre
extraordinary in your oneness
brighter than ever before.
In the Absence of Metaphors
Your brain is a concrete jungle full of
brooding, leaden monoliths.
Weeds thrive where sunlight falls -
I always had a soft spot for dandelions
and yours nod and sneeze in their
bunkered existence.
Feet trample with machine gun rapidity
crumpled stems shed green blood
and your head explodes with rage sending
umbrellas into the sky to land
on a new patch of concrete where you will
try your best to thrive once more.
Sulphureous light hovers above you at dusk
a helicopter parent trying her best
but failing to show you the stars before your
head sinks and droops in the darkness.
Above you the arrayed stars float between
Heaven and earth like ghosts and
the sky becomes a slumbering platform
of dancing chaos.
You dream (if such things are possible) of
being uprooted by hands that
separate your spiderweb roots and wind
them into meticulous spools of silver
then bury you in rich, abundant soil, free to
mingle with luxurious wildflowers -
concubines to the bees and birds that visit
with careless frequency.
No birdsong wakes you, just the relentless sun
that beats on your weary neck,
still aching from its midnight sag,
and burns all your dreams to dust.
Flight of the dragonfly 