Pure mountain rain is all it takes
To promise fatal force,
A trickle leaks from heightened stakes,
Rolls stealthily from the source.
It grows with every slippery bend,
Weaving in with murky pools,
It carries only clear blue sound,
Discarding matter cruel.
Driftwood’s tangled far behind,
So suck the jagged rocks,
Crushing cascade looming close,
A thousand lurching knots.
Our gentle lull becomes a sea,
Mutating with the hour,
Engulfing grass and river beds with
Wilder still it catches wind
That everything will change,
A swirling vortex burrows down
And wipes away your name.
The ink is smudged and dripping now
In water colour, of course,
Out pours the fluid memory;
Out flows the fatal force.
Pebbles ground up,
Around your neck,
As we lie in a twist
Of sea air
In the clasp of now
My face is a blur,
In my muddled up hair
The water creeps up
And bites at my feet
Is it cold?
It’s frozen, not there
My life in a box
Was wrenched from my side
I notice, too late
Do I care?
Honey, down in the depths of the pot
It stops if you reach its core
The glistening dulls to a mucusy blot
That clogs to rot in the back of your throat
It turns to dregs but the barrel is bare –
You licked it clean of its salt.
The hand that grabs is met with a snare
But the fingers that linger are forever without
They open and close like the mouth of a fish
Gaping at bubbles of air
You swallow at rocks ’til your body is sick
But you know that the hunger’s still there.
The Four Leaf Clover
If the four leaf clover is so lucky
Why does it stand in a sea of familiarity unseen
Alone, waiting to be plucked
From all who are the same but different?
To be greeted with such excitement
Expectations too high to fulfill
It becomes unreal, a myth, a lie
And yet it lies in wait
Hoping to be found, safe and secure
So it can become so much more
Than something so utterly fake.