Fumina Bianca

How sweet the sombre Moon,
Her constant timbres
In tremulous rhythms and
Crepuscular hues.
I have my own yellow
Contusion or two.

How easy for you,
Overdue now the Moon,
Permanently pregnant,
Your statues in temples
Are resplendent and nude,
Only a subtle
Lightless
Subdued.

Pendular Moon,
Appearing too soon,
Indulging indolent soldiers
And causing seven hundred
Saboteurs in your shade to
Swoon. They planted a flag
On your granular calcified
Caldera where entombed
Pulmonary metastases
Are cultivars which once
Were those sluggish
Bedfellows’ scimitars;
They rest on
Their thuggish elbows
Your silence,
Your rays on their chest.

I reached for my own sword
And found bread
Shaped like crescents
Instead.
The sharp tip of the route
To the Moon
I witnessed,
Its lactating tip bore
A causeway from my bed
Into new nocturnal views again.

A witness to misfortune
And efforts in mute,
Disasters reduced to mere
Moments, and the life cycles
Of the great and ancient
Volcanoes rendered into
Wispy smoke,
As the dragon incarcerated
With potent stones
Woken by a cough,
Or announcements
From His concave staff,
Heralding a Pope.

Grey Moon

Grey skies, grey moon,
Lanterns abandoned on the old pontoon;
Coldest rain, not quite snow,
Furloughed ghosts on shoreline roads.

Grey skies, blue moon,
Soonest mended isn’t soon;
I found you in a curlew’s tomb,
Curfew banners and a clue.

Moses basket, river child,
In the mists we walked a mile;
Surface bobbing sombre boon,
Grey skies, a greyhound moon.

Black Dress

This bleak and empty screen,
Like repetitive angst, or writer’s block,
Trying to eke and will words out

As contrived as a tattooed snake in my jaw,
Polarising a use of my
Fruitless time, amoral Time,

As trying to help pull you through
From one place in our denuded lineage
And the space between rhymes

To another untested angle,
But there’s your better lover
Returning home from work

While I wait through centuries here,
Willing improvements in words
To emerge like moonlight

On a dim and distant
Drain-scarred stagnant moor.
You dropped your black dress,

Yes, I watched the seismograph
In my mind finding new charts,
In a pool on a kitchen floor.