Tuesday, 25 November 2014

Rusden Sonnet 2:

She said she read auras, mine she said, was red: I told stories and as we
lay on the ground and I recovered from the metaphor of an aura
said to be red I told her a story in the form of a poem of two people
living on two different islands and the journey it might take for them
to reach out and find each other and in that darkened room the red
forgotten my words floated out to touch the cosmic pressed tin ceiling
and her hand reached out as she told me red was not so bad after all
not of it came with  a voice as bright as any full moon and in the dark

I remember I smiled at that and thought my words were more like hooks
that the ideas behind them were the bait for her lips to nibble upon
and then she said but though red was fine for me it spelt only trouble
for her and before the next breath fell into the anchored lungs within
my shipwrecked chest she rose up like a leviathan in the night and left:
I remained an island drifting again through the ocean of another night.

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