He or sometimes She
would never feel the salt but still we mourn
as if She or sometimes He
had lived a thousand lives.
All pains lie with Him
or Her,
the bullets and heartache,
ills and poisoned luck.
So here's to you
as tongueless hoardes come mute
to sail heavy, sometimes awkward glances
over thy dark frame in sandy, morphine jaws.
Eyes closed yet alive to clocks
and inches,
rolling to tea and shop fronts
where memoirs dragged by chariots of ages
come to fall under sleepy overtures
and choirs of death.
You,
the friend to skulls
lover of gin gallows and looking to the blind,
you come to a hundred deaths.
@Steven Francis poems 2014
More poetry from Welsh poet/writer Steven Francis. Described by one reviewer as "the poet with a magic microscope into human emotion", Steven is a fascinating walk into a dawn where the sun reveals everything...
