Still running from the echo of your voice

Still air breaks
A folded shout
An echo, a chase
A half familiar shape
Always (almost) always catches up

Your mouth is proud flesh
I know you speak yellow flowers
Chrysanthemums, daisies, cicatrix
All sun coloured glowering

Scratched, pierced through, rolling
A grin sunset wide
Chest hard beaten cloth
Entangled scant vehemence

I am that field, over there
The prone face of the hill
Reaped in mown straw
Left to jigsaw the sun
In hard razored angles

Obtuse, oblique
Enough to jangle
The sunburned nape
Footsteps strafing
The clod turned earth
A hole will break you
If you do not
Keep lightly running

Still I am creased
Turned and bent
Crumpled, dismade, thrown and rent
By the origami of your voice


The plane trees turn
Disillusioned leaves

Quite early this year
The Dutch elm bug is on his holidays
While we sneak out 

To the dregs of seaside towns
A breeze, gull-hollow in the mouth
Of a tipped over flagon

The day has that wormed-through look
Of driftwood and premature age

The gulls flock
In that senescent, rough drawn game
Of wings unfolding
In hearts and crosses

Someone poured out petrol on the sea
Bursting when the sinking sun, dissolved
In match-flare quickness
Dragged down with waning hostility, a smoking sky

As if no-one, in the semi-dark, could still be inflamed

I know you know the stars are embers
There is a parenthesis somewhere here
Time will only take you so far
From the edge we see the remnant light
Why – I don’t know why
That died in self-effacement
A shoreline’s length ago