A Cage To Hold My Dreams
Leafy Lanes Toasted By Rust
They promised me that life would go on
as before. A year, perhaps two at the most,
will erase her from your mind like snow
before the March winds. Where is this new
start that I was promised ? Why is it always
round another corner ?
Grief cannot help her, I am told
until my brain screams. But why do thoughts
of her pursue me in the darkness ?
Why is her voice an endless tape
inside my head, laughing and whispering,
dragging me over the edge of madness.
Sundays are the worst. Images rise
from the rubble of cheap take-home snacks
downed with supermarket wine.
A deserted beach in Sweden
where the tide scarcely moves
Sullen Hertfordshire mornings which lack
the ambition to grow into days.
She had the jewelled cadence of lamplight
on water. Linnets retired outsung by her
lime-green voice. Her thoughts were leafy
lanes toasted by the rust of Autumn.
Life will get better, I am assured
by my good friend Commonsense
who tells me lies in persuasive whispers.
