Sally A Mortemore

Raindrops lace my face' reflection 
puddles rippling mists on glass our train 
rattling passed the 1960s office building 
where my father principally pushes paper
...

Stripping back the morning clouds 
to slide into my coffee cup of existential thought 
the wish for a bluer sky to colour my horizons deepens 
when in declaration of the grey
...

the seagulls fly 
through cracks in 
torn-down windows. invisible 
screeches catching on glass. their avian
...

the water-colours pool in tones of melancholy 
pigments tainted for a year. from when 
alone with you two minutes seemed a lifetime.
now. nothing. but a lifetime to remember. always.
...

my tiger lies untied 
under white linen
blanketed in fur
...

beyond the edge of summer an un-furrowed field sits inside of moonlight. waiting. for worn out feet to come and fill her earth with shame.

does she remember?
does she recognise just how they stain her soil with wounds?
...

Collecting stones
the shimmer of water reflects acceptance
with an untouchable flourish of tenderness
never quite understanding its importance
...

Sirens wail of a new tomorrow
as the city slides to a sleep -
the Amen weep for the fallen
flailing the sterile streets.
...

Red Admirals flutter the glass of our prison windows
brief lives fading in frustration
the grasp of the clock's hands
too eager with insistence.
...

on that day
I stood with my black back towards the sun
my shadow cast across a myriad of smiling flowers
all drinking down their sorrow to my mother
...

Do you have any young friends
asks the boy
his mouth filled with plums
...

From out of the mouth of a graze
births a granulated tissue head —
a hypertrophic alien,
mutant and muling,
...

The sound of bristle on canvas -
retreating surf skating the shingle -
the occasional tapping of a palette knife
churning the paint.
...

Steel pillars plunge unwavering
despite the trains rumbling their rail tracks -
the constant daily progression -
as Westminster peers
...

Possibility sipped from the cup of opportunity
brimming with ritual and subliminal desire -
infused with violins and mandolins
the green tea poured — devoured.
...

Somewhere unknown a nameless woman grieves.
Some place alone.
A faceless mourner.
...

The trains scream the rail tracks
each crack of electric a reminder
of your lone wolf's silence
Death gnaws the bones of pain
...

the gentle pull of Saturn kicks upon invisible strings
inexorably tethered to my spirit and as a captive
I surrender to the judgement of its wisdom the darkness
a tidal moment to reflect upon
...

deathly silence
solitude a lonely road to travel
when faced with nothing but oneself
and the days stretch with an elasticated ease
...

who owns these trees. who stamped their barks.
who claimed them. who stood them tall and designated
keepership. who schooled them. who gave them insight
to rise above each scar and twisted wood knot.
...