Outside with tea and blankets:
a Fortress against the
August cold.
And so begins another typically English evening.
night is marching,
marching on and
unusually
we are not glued to our phones
nor the daily grind.
we catch a handful of
Shooting Stars
and find that this is an addictive occupation.
One moment I wished I could drape my room with starry waterfalls
but then considered how they would
dull
and
darken
if I breathed too deeply in my sleep.
(a subconscious effort to absorb some starlight into my clotting veins.)
So leave me now under the
Flaming Sky and all its anger.
Leave me alone so that I may fall asleep,
at last.
I have an appointment with the moon about my dulling temperament.
The stars have sworn to let down a
r
o
p
e
l
a
d
d
e
r
my own Stairway to Heaven.
So rip my heart out,
let my arteries unwind.
Haul me to heaven with my umbilical cord.
There I cling to the back of a comet
and hurtle through space
alive at last and full of stars
until the nausea takes hold
and puts me to bed.
A poem I wrote a few weeks ago about watching the Perseid meteor shower in the garden with my mum.
