Bell Lane

Better not to wander up Bell Lane
all in bloom,
past the tyre and discarded shoe,
the broken door by the ruined wall
of the imaginary dream house.

Better not to wander
to the archive on the hill
but wander I will,
down corridors half-remembered,
past doors I may not enter
where boxes and cans are stored,
that tell only half a story.

Better not to wander
to a white house made of dust,
but wander I must,
still further, deeper,
to the hub of memory
where in cells as cold as death,
history crumbles to nothing.

Better not to wander
up Bell Lane,
but I’ll wander again,
wander again.

that sharp anvil

we all know something about pain
it is hot-wired to our brains
like electrodes applied to tender places
by visitors with cruel faces
who drag us harrowed white
in the screech hours of the night
and on that sharp anvil of a pin’s breadth try
one breath before we die to break us
like they used to break men down
upon a wheel while in our secret heart
love waits to be revealed

pray love comes to all who remain
we all know far too much about pain

[first posted December 2014]