I wish

I wish

that I were young again;

that Time,

who has stamped

crass etchings on my face,

were once again a friend,

as on those summer afternoons

where sunshine pooled

across your belly

and berries thickened

on the raspberry canes.

I wish

that when we followed

those bluebell paths

they had never ended

and that we were still

upon them now

negotiating touch

and kiss

and loss.

But there was

no recognition

in those times

that these times

would be

but the worn lining

of my empty purse

where coin edges have

burned the fabric;

where mites of dust

have gathered

in muffling silence.

Sleep

crumbs

the corners

of my eyes.

Thaw

There is an icing
on the window

after this last night

cold has bitten pits into the railings

and frozen 

animal tears 

in the sockets of eyes.

I would paint the sun rise

from here

contemplating distances
in hours

measuring dividing miles 

in sighs.

But you could
colour a new colour,

for I am tired

of these greys and blacks

that I have found of late.

You could bring
a new palette

and refresh my water jar
that I might clean my brushes.

With swift determined strokes
upon the vellum sheet
I would flake the cyan sky
above your head
and the dust dry land
beneath your feet
for

I perceive

the brightness
of a Southern sun

in your hair.

Sound me a new sound

For I am weary of my groans

and moans.

Whisper me secrets

that will tease 
this dwindled flame

into life again

for it has grown lethargic

in this customary dark.

I would crack the hoarfrost

that encrusts my beard.