Calligraphy of naked branches
against the urban avalanches
is crisp and clear, like the voices
of morning birds. There are no choices.
Breathe in the cold that stops your breath,
that fills your lungs – your shibboleth
and drown, happy, in the verse
of crystal clear universe.
It is not in lost and found.
Maybe on the underground
I forgot it on the train?
Maybe cold autumnal rain
washed it off – down the drain?
Maybe, in the daily grind,
it slipped out of my mind
and, with finished magazine,
I just dropped it in the bin?
Or, in fact, it wasn’t binned –
maybe restless urban wind
blew it off with fallen leaves
to be caught among the eaves
in the gutters up above?
Where is my epic love?
You imbibe of your desperate loves to get over the voids,
forming rickety bridges and narrow paths in the clover.
He is happy and chirpy, who covers, sidesteps and avoids,
but the longer you do it the heavier is the hangover.
Some winter nights
are like a fairy tale:
warm amber lights
create a shiny veil
of snowflakes
and puddle, forming lakes
of glitter underneath.
Imagine this:
the cresent of the moon is not too far,
it’s gingerbread that hangs off shiny star.
Please take a bite –
it tastes of sweet and spice.
The magic night –
it happens once or twice
in life or in your head –
who cares which?
Get out of your bed –
it’s time to reach
for warmest coat.
Go and invent
your own tale,
the one that wasn’t meant
to be or last,
that’s written on the sand.
It’s temporary, fleeting.
Feel content.
Accept impermanence, enjoy the ride,
inhale the warmth and go back inside.
Ionian sea –
an onion sea.
Layer by layer
peel it for me.
Peel off the flight
when hearing hurts –
hawker’s delight
of pushy adverts.
Airport flamboyance
of nameful obscurity,
petty annoyance
of queues and security.
Peel off the sweating,
crowded streets,
bugs in the netting,
beggars and cheats.
Down to caverns
of shade in the heat,
vine-covered taverns –
treats to retreat;
to navy-blue air
for mythical fish;
down to where
there’s nothing to wish.
