Nest

The Midas touch of emotions, happiness becoming solid and fixed. Also, the making of a place to call home. Often times, weaving is a necessary skill to have.  But it seems being able to fly is a more enviable feat.

 

The golden dust,

In bags by your knees;

The bulk,

Heavy

Rich blend,

 Poised

Honey

The glitter

To swallow

In motes

Of phosphenes;

Spiralling

Laughter

Blazed

Our bed, our

Nest,

Woven;

Stubborn roots

For rest

Mid-air

The down

Of feathers touching

Tip to tip –

The chirruping

Of us abreast

Calling in topaz

Skies skipped

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Ursula

SAM_0883

Dissenter. Maverick. The figure in the cave: Platonic yet restricted to dance and alchemy. Movement and transformation her excellence. Shipton, it seems, is a transcending location.

 

In the cave I dig

A pit for fire to box in flames

And shadow dance

Tall and faint

Against weathered contours

Of stone.

I have the flair

For tango and waltz –

To ripple roughly

And sink into grooves

Sharp deep shallow carved

I am large enough

To fill this cavernous mould

Seamed with gold,

Lead

Alchemy envy

Dust and ore –

Nothing I own is flesh composed,

But is solid and cold:

Gifts from the locals transformed

To blend in with my home

Against the trickle of water in

The maw

Of a cliff’s throat.

Petrified mobile – all

Detritus and greatest joy aloft,

Weight to fall without

Wings on the end of a line,

All mine

Grotesque

Reigning resonation sublime

Wild

SAM_0880

The child in all of us, embodied and fierce in the serene cold of winter. Adapting, hoarding, under the distant voice of mother moon. Encouraged or dissuaded, she does as she pleases, seeking colour in this anaemic season. But it seems being feral is an animalistic quality for the young.

 

The moon,

Obscured, could only whistle

To her shine

As the wind cried crescendo

Plus

Shrill and cruel

In wintry gusts

A breath of the wild:

Swirling, pressing, unabashed

Wraith

With arms outstretched,

Premature cold

Falling as slick sleet,

She chased the leaves

And left a trail of

Jewel sodden creatures skittering;

Hopping, leaping

In bounds,

Penned and gated

By the garden fence;

And on them she spat,

To polish, make sleek

And store

In snow –

Childish treasures

Unsettled

Discontent

Flat

In frost’s throes.

Cheesecake

SAM_0885

Layers, threefold, the perfect dessert. Something to fold into, peel, dissect and taste. The flavours, textures; syrupy and comforting, beneath the tang of excitement. On different plates, sitting in place, congruent and pleasing. For me there is a sole preference. But that is to digress.

 

Oh, the divine

Slice

Of your body

On porcelain sheets;

White

Patina’d

Plate to host a feast

Piece by piece –

Strawberried mouth,

Red and seeded

Speech;

I lick, kiss;

Crumbs of ecstasy whipped,

Bowl curved

In hips

Belly

Breast

Lips

Rounded

From

Which I can dip

My tongue

And eat

The vanilla, the

Cream

Cut up neat

The cramming of

Black forest cherries

Sticky and sweet

Hives

The cells of our lives, and the spaces. Sometimes it is what is in those spaces which count the most. Spaces have all the potential to be. The open mouth of a lover: words either sweet or stinging, but still providing a hook, something to hold on to. Words we can go back to, loaded and ready to be sorted into place. And most importantly, we all have our queens.

 

The syrupy cells,

Raised walls

Angled and filled

Your mouth, full

Sugared

And stinging

I hear the buzz,

The dance,

The vibrations of light and

Sun

Shadowed by the ebbing

Of latticed tongue

Winged,

Gossamer strong

Torn words,

Sweet words,

Pulsed out in the thrum

I lay back,

Barbed joy in

Your legs, eyes,

Throbbing

Hum,

Thick, sticky

Sibilant voice:

Apis strung