april

The World After April
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i. Magic Lantern

Over the Moon a silver wind
is blowing, rippling gently around
the improper temples, the composed statues
around which we play tag, submerged in
the shimmering liquid mist, profoundly
silent. In the petal-strewn corridors of space
we kiss as often as our eyes meet.

The florid mosaics depict life
exactly as it was. The buses
in the town centre, the milling mannequins
dressed in velvet and cellophane, with
clowns' sad faces, giving away
scraps of precious paper. And then,
as millions of bubbles dragged along
the pavements, a miracle happened: our bubbles
brushed; burst into one.

ii. Dancing in the Dark

I wrote you poems that were flattering mirrors.
Life rewarded me with sensuous metaphors,
images brimming with honey: the quiet
oases of your sandy skin;
your eyes as clear as whitewashed walls
in southern Spain. Spain's warm inkwells
of nights made it all so easy.

We plundered one another's Inca treasure.
On firefly-lit beaches we boozed all night
with friends, and then in dawn's cool breath
clung fiercely to each other's glowing
embers. The ravaging acid sun
swabbed us clean as we raced up towards
the beaten gate thrown open on
our hearts' now molten brink.

iii. Dreams in a Labyrinth of Mirrors

At heaven's edge the fanfare of
unicorn festivities made us brew
secret potions of the liquefaction of light.
We became love's spies, cunnungly camouflaged
among the desolate silver craters. Then
we were gladiators, our bitter swords
were love. We fought with panache and style,
amid splendour; finally you threw me to
the lions. It might have been the other way round.

The freedom added dimension to life.
The delicacy of vistas: the mountains' teeth
thrusting above felt-lined valleys, the sparse
wilderness of chalets. The sky, the air.
Not obscured by your soulful face,
in the classic wistful expression. You
are buried in April and I shall not put
flowers on your faraway grave, for I
am the falcon who hunts alone...