Saturday, 12 November 2016

Rockpool or 6.21 AM

Light, high notes tik-tak against the shuttered sash window.
There's peace in the rain chorus with the woodwind
weaving and swelling in between
It's safe in this cavernous cocoon
from the mollusc shell of my duvet where
I sway in thought

It's a prosaic current at 6.21
A low thrum of contented consciousness -  rare and seeking
to pen itself in delicious words curling
my tongue around their impermanence

Seeking to be remembered when the turbulence comes
Or the dry hours - worse even with their dulling, numbing apathy
aping crassly this still-mindedness

It's temperate here with soft swells and slow eddies
stroking lingulates down through me - languorous, weighty laps - beneath the carapace balming
the core of peace I'd forgotten I had

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