Quiet
Quiet,
the whistling of ears - and furniture grunts
Silently the sun creeps
across the rug
warms my ankles
heightens colour to a shout
Reflection
my river of runes, still as a pool
with no depth
no winking wave
no sea-bound branches or lost balls
not even a corpse
The mill (of words) is closed
boarded up
A slower flow filters my fascination
admits starlight into pallid waters
as the dragon sleeps
It’s been flying and burning
and hoarding gold
Old, we might associate with laudanum
but this cold spring
is like an opiate
So drowsy, yet busy and alive -
the moment your attention wanders…
Trust this thing
to lead me to a sacred place
and drug me til I’m dead, dead, dead
and in that torpor,
the dragon tests its wings…