Poetry – Page 129

The Curator

The Curator
of ancient cutlery admires
the knives and forks.

Awake again at 2 am,
creating worlds and having visions.

I tell myself I should be myself,
yet there are so many
words in my mixed-up heart.

I’d rather wait for another hour
for the visions of Vikings;
then sleep and dream of terror.

solitary thoughts
night moves on
awaiting dawn
thinking of you
trees standstill
a bird sings alone

soon the washing will dry
tea towels will crinkle
fabrics will crimple
shirts will be naturally ironed
soon the sun will dry the washing

A summer serenade

under the full

moonlight by the sea.

Duckies congregate
there’s comfort in their quacking
Waddling and talking

Apathy is a trend.

Once hated, now loved.

Unbelievably believable.

The summer and the winter will pass,
as the good and the bad will pass.

Be like the many flowers in spring
or the colourful trees in autumn.

Wear hope like a cashmere scarf
around your neck to remind you that
we will all return to mossy mud.

Then live your life.

Your love of unimportant things,
the way you hold cutlery at 2 am,
Ice cream and passionfruit eyes.

Your expensive underwear taste,
the wiggling that goes on daily,
kisses after drinking apple juice.

Such love is only a
once in a million love
that I found with you.