Laurence E. Bourke

The doom-noise tumbles in. no colors flee the eye of it.
Miles on windy miles succumb, sunlight cant get in.
Nothing tells the day from night beneath this grey-black roof,
This charged procession of cloudy walls,
...

Fleet as wind, she slenderly navigates the
early morning world. A world unseen to the
sleepers, tinned skies distilling the blue of
the west, the yellowing east.
...

In sleep, in sleep, I wander deep,
Into minds un-ego’ed keep,
And swim in thoughts
And swim in dark,
...

The over-blue is full of noise, and bottomless, summer sinks its
Humid teeth into the sky, boiling tons of barely breathable air,
Dynamic flotillas of white clouds graze the illusory crown of sun,
...

All night, you weighed me up, globular, a mad-god eye,
From your jeweled grove. What weight can measure the
Sky when you unbalance so. Dark sided circumference, always
Hidden, maybe you’ve lived forever,
...

The world outside, a dark room of water,
quiet and unbearably bleak.
Movement limited to the grey tides
above.
...

Winters transparent coat, the blustery cape of a November morning
Swings downward, erratically and with ultimate force,

A barbarous mixing of air and below zero climes, snatched
...

Clouds this morning bear no semblance to those were accustomed to,
Rimmed by tides of winter fire, dull goliaths, tired with rain, Yearning
to expunge their elephantine loads,
...

These are the cliffs, proving Ireland's finite edge,
Steep slabs, rugged hearts of olden things, of all forgot.
We tremble at the slope, skirting these stormy world rims.
...

The morning briskly opened its half lit eyes,
And me, walking out unknowingly into the dusky bedlam
Felt as though the world was one of wind and ice,
A world tilted on sleepy axis toward some distant night.
...

Sluggish lines of cloud persist, interrupting mid-days
Glowing sheet, a spectacular explosion of blue.
Springs warming clime slows the cloudy migration above,
Dragging their dim underbellies beneath the skies bowled ceiling...
...

The commonplace roof, caked in filthy years worth of grime,
Is surely no place for you, King of the sky!
Three terrific claws anchoring, perched atop the squared
house, an ungainly thing, it has not aged as you.
...

A violent wind-scape overwhelms the outer world,
Pry’s open sleepy thoughts, hurling them
Headfirst into the rainy wakefulness roaming outside!
...