Sloe Black
It was a coal black, sloe black,
black black sloe sort of night
that danced not towards dawn
but ran back and forth
into the dark forest
of crumbling, crushing myth
The tide had stalled in a starfish spin
a strand-boat, quick-sand, sloe sand
sucking lamb of sacrifice
a ducking mother
craft knit into night
spelled d-a-r-k-n-e-s-s
Missing missed still
not a mermaid murmur
or Tracey trace
No tell-tale itinerary, glitterflake tell
on the goodness my
oh gosh and gracious
of helpless necessity in the night
Spelled O.M.G.
In the grizzly grip of hopeless groping
clung to fret and flux
of harbour light and harbour dark
and threatening nothings in the park
they patrol the boats of improbability
across murderous moors of malcontent
and six or seven saline seas
who shush the secret shores
Then in the first frantic light
of misery’s mithered morning
In that silver, fish-skinned
ill-limned lame lampoon of a day,
sadly, the circus would not take
such a scrawny, buck-fanged,
foul-mouthed waif
But you know who did