Whichever way you weigh it, eight ounces is eight ounces
Whether flour or margarine or virgins, light in olive oil
Those blackened disks always come into a balance
That irregular scoop of tin dare not defy
The cast iron weighty scale
But your blue apron, dusty and covered in grease
Reminds me of the smiles
On the day the bread was burnt
When no amount of kneading would have found the underlying texture
Adding even only the tiniest of ounces would have offset the symmetry
Straight lines
Frames arranged in a semi-circle
Around stone pillars and prayer rooms
Under arches and overhead vapours
You take your light
Through stained glass windows
Eulogise, from about now
Until…
Well some say
'It will be sometime soon'
Although
For those of a deeper persuasion
A little while longer dwells the silent clock
One more line, one more etched away corner
One more hour of darkness, one more morning to dawn
Take me to your dreamer, out of my imagination
Take me then redeemer, out beyond creation
One more - wait before the brushstroke
One more - wait before the breath
Take me as I seem
Take me freely, coming clean
The idea that you might not
Appear
That the book won't contain your
Look
At the past or future, then
At last
By saying nothing, being nowhere
Slaying
Your demons or those around you
Semen and gossamer in close proximity
You chose by looks
Not to give two…
I read of self, of identity
Of exploration and passage
But David Noon - it is your phrase:
The sanctity offered by the countryside
That lifts my spirits
I want to walk along your pier head
Dive into your water
Let your cold mountain touch my skin
Maybe then
To write of the experience
To let go of the endless search
Camouflaged in regular words
