Poetry

Six

I lay there a candidate cat, snoozing, allowing
your jumbled words to flow over me. A fever
from the fireplace takes my attention from

your hands and words spilling over cirrus clouds.
In our garden Goaty is dreaming of warm woods
and you growing roots in the dry French earth.

Your features rearranged into a stone wall, labouring.
I fly, your stream lined fingers are my bow. Wasps
settle on my round shoulders and I sting them with

my ignorance. You're still talking about canals and barges,
I am inside my ivy pool drowning spiders. The cat slinks in
across trains of goodbyes and your temples open its doors.

I try to sweep myself under the dark wood bed but as
a splinter I'm stuck under your thumb. You are trying to tell me
all I know is already done.

Colombine Neal