Late Spring Evening in Dorset

Would I were nestled inside a punk narrative

streaming Cornish coastal kisses, salty dirt

made in the palms of those who anchor and release

my imagination with their tiny, unheard-of

hands

pouring their love into the Celtic sea where

a sky sits on top of them, its arse like cushions

your grandma's holy thighs, cloudy in a shade of blue

milling the peas of green, tempered English light

which just doesn't hold sway on this side of the

Atlantic.

This story of peat and children smelling of wind

their airs perching them up as they make adventures

with nothing but words and their shoes

in an instrument which speaks a language which we all

can feel, but none can hold to us.

So we push away the elusive notes which boggle us

unlike the sheepfolds of sky and rain on that craggy

cliff coast, where suicides beget love affairs beget

all the things which were not take upon, when they

could have been.

The coast and its blue-green punk rock sky remains

in silent scream at our stupidities

while we yell at the children for their dirty feet,

and eyes too wide upon the oncoming sea breeze,

salt in their lids making up stories as they go;

never letting our own fears get in their way.

Can't stop the sky from forming as it does,

always--

have her way.

M. Lucia