Poet / Writer


ELEANOR REES

           
 


Extract from:

"A Red Moon "


I break the top from the cathedral
and it comes,
oozing steam
cream, champagne,
a thick cloud on the ground,
is a cake now, a castle, an island,
a ship, a table, pip in an apple, an eye,
an overweight seal on the edge of the tide.
It loves me I think
heavy under sheets
of water-clogged cloud.
The city is a man.
He raises
terraces, parks,
streetlight eyes
to see moon simmer on paving skin.
He walks.
I cling.
He wants to take me home
to sleep stretched over the shore
to fall,
shorting,
hot and sweet
to leave me surly
but settled in the street:
breath in the night, three stars,
ice at toes, a haze
of streetlamp orange and fumes
and this road is a gate
it seems, that leads
to the other side of town like an arrow
and burns –
the flames
standing up from yellow hyphens
that mark the tarmac,
joining its thinking into streets and suburbs.
Fire burns fire burns
in this skin
in a car engine
in the threshing blue of the sea -
across the town from here,
sun leaps into deep plum distance
and a full-shadow midnight white
raze and cut of moon
on the well-lined multi-storey roof
where lamp lit eyes
blink now at bubbling rain-sky,
fat-laden midriff-spinning
end of the ocean
end of an evening rain.
Thinking of love
momentarily pass to you
stood absent in shadow
stood absent in the park
stood absent in the dock
or you absent in the cemetery
where a granite wall, smooth and shiny dark,
is a top hat
balanced on the edge of the quarry
- they took the sandstone
from this furrow
spooned it north into brick and mortar-
mausoleums
stone angels:
a spring
levels from the rock
pours its wetness over mulch and moss
of autumn passed
as night irradiates with moon,
statues,
arms aloft,
catch unseen, the past:
a sailor sings calypso
heard at the docks,
tail-coated gentleman
is lost in fog,
and a child in a nightgown
runs into town
cotton wet on thin legs
she slips quick into
this cross-hatched night:
servant girl carries laundry,
butler waxes railings with shoeshine.
In a carriage without a driver
a thin black horse plumed and warm
draws a hearse of white bones
to the burial ground.
The light is hot.
The city is burning up
with fires that have passed
or should have passed
but linger
gold at a touch.

Eleanor Rees

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