At the sign of the moon (across) it's the drifting sight
                         of snowfall
          backing up, like strong memory,
                         change, the sweetness the bitterness the so

It seems we never made it (across) that strange hybrid river
          one sky of two people dips a moon in
                         to change, the sweetness the bitterness the so

What hot pink light flickers (across) in a kiss
          (pomegranates and insects rot in
                         and air's sworn to)
          spoken, we'll break to I say and I am
          and in the stillness afterwards
          no recollection happens in
          we'll change the sweetness the bitterness the so

Moon of the lexicon the eyes move (across) and on
          the other side
                         your lover is waiting
          gathering in shadows and vocal halflights:
heavy and young like bullocks
                         but somehow with salty hooves of moonlight
          we're easily phased, and the sexy
pastoral itself crowds on, lowing
          to change, the sweetness the bitterness the so

Following summer, the shade (across) the sunflower's tail
          (klondike and meteors)
                         is goldrushing and an empty gourd;
and we hive off thrills, sweep a hand through a comet's hair
          in September's retros and melancholia
          comb hexagons for the sensational
          stillness of the is–meat, the decaying, gripped and real:
          the building of a whole new lunar story,
          somewhere to house a good rumour in,
          to culture apiarists' verbs like 'need'
          or 'crave', 'store', or 'sleep', or 'dream',
          beekeeper memory of love
          we put our hearts in, and want, at last,
          to rest by – to house, in here,
                         change, the sweetness the bitterness the so

Personal worlds are drifting in the look, the abridged, the defined
This is the so-called moon
The rising planet and the steam from the coffee
We bring our 'came' and our 'turning'
We bring our 'now' and our 'turning'
The so-called 'this' of 'this heat', I need it,
and you call me to a life of fire, hips and peace
We bring our 'went' and our 'away'
among the so-called stones that shift
almost imperceptibly in our breath
This is so home, just beyond a haunch in the river
This is our so home now

Just across the river, flocks of small sheep raggedly pick their way;
their combed fleeces are so fine, the rams' heads so black,
their eyes are polished emeralds, and their feet so dainty
The breeze carries the scents of named and unnamed fruits
and the tree of the book pops open with surprise
and springs with bright lemons at the autumn sleepyhead
of the nodding face of the childish reader
Meanwhile, the breeze rises, and something strange
stalks through the universe, swaying every star
and snowflake, leaf and room
No one remains to tell the tale; no one remains to listen
Evening comes on, weighty pears
thud down from the stale, erudite branches
Campfires flicker from the other bank
and deeper in the wood
there are phonic deer grazing by a brook
with semantic nomads watching over them
Honey and salt, trees swishing in the Beaufort Scale,
the place of language (and skipping deer)

Beyond that is everything

Copyright © Michael Ayres, 2003.

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