Thirties

  Your birthday came early;
  shoots and leaves
  from the trees in the yard, 
  fingers
  on the glass
  when we woke.

  Too drunk to fuck
  you watched with half-moon eyes
  sly from wine when I tried;
  the gentle thrum of cartoons through the wall
  a sad serenade.

  By late afternoon
  a storm churned outside,
  dark clouds burst;
  the moon
  a wink on the horizon. 
  You cooked eggs 
  while I slept
  the whistle from the kettle 
  shrill
  when it came to the boil.


Easter Monday

Every sound echoes, 
seconded 
by dry stone 
in reply.
Voices crack 
like shoes saved for best,
second skin blistering beneath first;
kissing warm tarmac
lips pursed
with every step.
  
Dogs 
chase their own tails.
Coffee pours and drinks itself. 
Pretzels, stale as the day
are thrown like rocks down throats
and
boats pass under the bridge
like cotton through the eye
of a needle.

I heard birds

 I heard birds
 on my return;
 shrill bursts through the
 stringy silhouettes of trees
 branches twisting
 as new Spring leaves
 reached out in the dark of the early morning.
 My footsteps echoed on the pavement
 church bells
 and soft lights slipped and fell from windows
 of shops and flats
 while street lamps clicked off
 as I passed.                                                                                                  
 Eyes closed.
 The sky hung low
 over the park
 that was sunk deep in the middle;
 a crater in the surface of the earth
 filled with grass and other living things
 the train tracks gone.
 We circled the rim like eagles
 heads bowed to the ground
 and your hair, blonde now
 and soft as goose down
 waved; fluffy
 in the moon breeze;
 your newly browned skin
 creasing like paper
 rubbed out by the wind.