Fire is the nature of angel blood

Spaces and Dust

A sheen of dust,
thin envelope of air,
and a fear of death
that stops us living,
are things we all share.

I inhabit space
behind a cellar door -
geographically nowhere much.

The door is a curtain of sun-
construction a selection of fragments,
sprung green fern, fragrant degradation.

My mighty arms are combed
with stents and probes,
underlashed by equatorial pipes.

We are between spaces -
height - depth -
left - right -
hemispheres of chance
drenched with light, borders tied
with chants and prayers.

Wonder-bound, our wounds
are mined with wire and sound -
blooms of colour
amid fear and deafness.

Deities of indecision,
how the dust settles
in the loss of momentum,
like flies on a carcass.

The Blossom Bride

In almond silk
she leans into her groom.
Her face lifts to his, rapt
with thatched cottages-
Cinderella wins the Prince.

The bridesmaid studies her bouquet
whilst the groomsman looks elsewhere.

They will eat from crystal
and silver dishes.
She'll be a Mrs, a mother, a lover.

Those prizes she never expected
open like sugar blossom
in her smile.
She is an almond queen,
and takes her throne today,
ever-after circled on her finger.

He's her candy-frosting man,
too sweet to run away.

After Troy

On the necks of wild horses
we spread our wings,
stretched headlong,
wind in our teeth
blades in our fists.

Still the black ships came,
drove their wedged prows
hard upon our shores,
spears lowered
towards the city.

By Greek gifts and fire,
she burned.