From Genesis to Dartmoor

from Genesis to the ending day,

the skin of stone lays heavy on the soil.

dog-tailed and tagged, skinny as a fig.

no birds of song to fuel my Winters sleep.

 

through the eye-balls of the pine, old as wheat,

grows silence through the hands of genocide.

they have lost their shape; the muddle and the rose.

their eye-lids stacked as stair-case to my tongue;

 

from brightness to the dark side of the fruit.

in foreign voice I crawl between the curtains of reprieve.

hanging shapeless with the hero and the twitch,

our shadows hanging taller than our souls;

 

from man to neophyte. paper thin and rusting.

the laughing gas grinds heavy on my lungs.

too old to laugh. too young to scribble notes as others do.

too old to bark and bitch as lovers do;

 

from Genesis to Dartmoor.

draped in grass by the written words of Plath.

still haunted by her pages from her heart.

let my gold mouth cry,

let me loose among the pheasants and balloons.

let me kiss you,

and I will show you how important you really are;