Beneath the summer sun

Beneath the summer sun
slowed by the madness of time
the sound in my arteries
foams in my throat;
I swallow hard and steal a thought of you
far from this sewer
that swells daily with aborted lives
measured in meaningless yards
we wait and we write
we write and we wait
days spent in a little more dirt reached;
foreign tongues cut short from talking heads
abandoned black against autumn’s bite;
lovers and sons
blown into the arms of their Sunday God
who holds them forever, eternally young.

When we were young

I had a master-plan to the grave
when we were young,
when the world was smaller than my fears
I’d send you flowers on paper
that needed neither vase nor tending
and every white expansive Sunday
promised “that” look
as I would write unacademic verse
and you, you would go gently grey
watching me listen
to the seasons begin their change.

© D. Archer. September 2013

The Cinder Path

The touch of my own hand draws weary,
long gone the soft skin of another
that would in street or field squeeze
between my ungloved fingers
a head turning smile
that had no needs for words.

Once the cinder path would make the only sound,
uniform under foot we walked our own pace,
oblivious to life’s diverging reasons;
now the clock between us says the most
and we find ourselves painfully lost
in the middle of a sentence
that is mirrored only
by the depth of the season.

I, alone, open my eyes
and inhale the weather just to see
the last leaf falling from the giving tree,
the demise of autumn,
the remains of regrets that lie on my tongue
will feed me through the winter
as I withdraw from the light
and hibernate from love.

© D. Archer. October 2012


Four Seasons in one sentence

Without looking I saw a couple
trying to wrap one last gasp sentimental scarf
around two halves of a known failing heart;
and while all was calm
they couldn’t see the holes
and the unravelling
had already made a faint but fatal start.

Their summer tilted towards autumn,
trees yielded soft leaf tears to the restless wind,
their conversation changed
and with four seasons in one sentence
I heard unspoken dreams
fall to pieces inside her
as silently they stood
one word away from each other
and the inevitable end.

© D. Archer. September 2012