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Cumuli
I sit in the sand to write of winter travels.Out west above the waves the threat of rainaccumulates and then, again, unravels.Lithe bodies whose perfection gives me painthat someday they will go, a useless cavil,implant their outlines in my grateful brain.When winter comes, comes cold, and time to write,and after those, the dark and endless night. The night brings bombs that vaporise old timbersand interrupt our squabbles with a miteof understanding as the blast dismembersa neighbour whom we knew but just by sightand recognise no more among these embers.A soul as fuel gives but little light. Through what was roof the moon shines in to bringmy thoughts outside to search the dark for spring.
Cumuli
fromEarth Tourist, © Alan Reynolds 2009Page
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As racers race, as flyers tend to fly,a couple couples four feet up the beachwith sandy knees and sheepish smiles that cryfor company, but they are out of reachand I can’t be bothered. (Lord, forgive my lie.)I write in blood and watch the paper leachthe words into it till the last sun setsand coming winter cossets my regrets.I need a moon, or more, to lift my spirit. This war goes on forever and the fightinvades my night child’s mind and tries to steer itto madness, as if safety lay in flightfrom Eden now our guns arrive to queer it.We pave the earth in ash to prove we’re right.How long can we endure, and at what price?Last summer’s waves go soft beneath the ice.
Cumuli
fromEarth Tourist, © Alan Reynolds 2009Page
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Some images I won’t report:the waythe seagull hangs six feet above Lucinda
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the way a blonde, to enter the café,takes forever, in the door, to wend ashawl around almost her hips
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¡Olé!
 
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the way her sister, coming in to spend apenny is garbed solely in a teeshirt no one else notices
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Such sightsare lost on those who focus on cold nights. The darkness where night children I imaginehave hidden half the winter goes to grey.Grey goes to rose, and breezes bring a smudge in:reality, another one, gains swayto order my perceptions as they trudge inin lockstep till they learn they must obeyonly what I want them to, then fly.I imagine summer’s coming by and by.Why should we celebrate the present summer,
Cumuli
fromEarth Tourist, © Alan Reynolds 2009Page
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