Lazuline

A renewed sadness befalls,
Unconditional as dawn
As she yawns across
Her blue waterfall-hair,
Her languorous manner
No longer enthralled,
Nor so equally
A source of despair.

I slowly drank a cup of tea
As time unminded his hours
And I sensed the ghost of myself.
Your last school photograph
Landed on my doormat this morning –
A smudged inky crest betrayed
What rested inside.
Your blue tie
Looser than it should be,
For which I would have gently
Chided and addressed
With a father’s careful hands;
Your pursed smile
Undeniably self-conscious
Not for your natural and
Certainly unfamiliar
If also not filial
Grace and intelligence,
But instead I knew
Instinctively,
Wordlessly,
You felt it necessary
To disguise
Your dental braces, yet still
Despite that withholding
Your humour could not be denied,
For it would always be belied
By an unmistakable
Iridescence
Traced like soul rainbows
Within your eyes of lazuline.

How many years have you been gone now?
How many more occasions will pass by?
Your photographs stopped arriving
After that last one,
Along with birthday cards
And the moon’s innumerable markers.
Sometimes it is better to lose count
Than have painful memories revived
Of how we survived.

The dewiest morning remembered –
I dreamt then in photographs,
In portraits and still life,
Some salvaged moments of you
Ascend into a fleeting
Feeling of pride,
Soon dissipated by
That appalling dawn;
For what good is the use
Of a smile and a song,
When all’s been gone
For far too long.

There Is A Version Of Me

There is a version of me
Seven steps ahead,

He implored that I should follow,
Spinning a spider’s thread.

He led me over marshes
Where mallow-long laments,

We toured the northern caverns,
Where habit-froth ferments.

I asked him, where are we going,
His resolute manifest mute,

Without reply, I remained unknowing
Of purpose to his shameful route.

For he stole from me my compass,
He stole from me my hope,

And all the things that I should be
Are buried on those slopes.

If you see me wild and wandering,
Unarmoured man, who once was kind,

You are not viewing me, but him,
My grave was seven years behind.