Those pale greens; air creates a silhouette
of childhood sitting in the arm chair.
So mild the breeze's evening stir
while the carers move a sick boy
through the motions of his excercise
while clouds darken and conspire.
And this countenance;
to neither say nor speak nor breath.
The wind, is almost too gentle in the garden
as memories of last night come through mute
waiting for the amber lights to come on.
All as the sun was coming up too early;
thirst a rolling in the green leather
and the only draught was that blue light
on our dim and lonely crawl
and not being able to stop our bodies touching
It comes to me as heavy breathing
and I can't say if to have this-
to feel some form of intimacy
has left me shaken in a sleepy pallour now.
I can hear the grey water run
its course through the silent days
but such a dark and quiet place
on the coach
hammock-swhishing back and forth
there's something like the ghost
of light-blue flowers, your air
Only coming back at night.