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Bookends

written by: Gavin Haycock

@poetry_pieces

 

the left and right page were right in wrong places
your face said it all
she writes of beehives and blasphemy
her electric flashes deliver exploding monsoons
you were simply over it, when spent and done
I found it difficult to read
under water
though was willing to try
dark with the wine of subterranean inhalations
we later sat together, bookended by pillars of salt, glass and driftwood
a cold, wet afternoon
when thunder clouds, driving hail and feathers from far-flung birds
lashed windows and blew through
panes shuddering in frames above us
you ate from a bowl of small olives
I held out before you
trying to follow shadows arising in your mind from a hidden sun
I listened for sounds when nothing was heard
and looked for things when nothing could be seen
like the way knees brush each other
momentarily, while walking
or how sunspots ripple when a fleeting grin appears
your fingers flicked a pit from the Mediterranean pulp
and then another, towards the open shell of the bowl
perched on a thread of vines running like veins to my fingers
they flew, blown by a furnace of silence
to disappear among cracks in the floorboards
like childhood memories, the ones lost
after being written in sand before an incoming tide
so many things said within these shifting pages we didn't understand

Gavin Haycock

Gavin Haycock

Once a crime reporter, once a journalist and editor, then other things. Creatively, into poetry, crime fiction and short tales. A journey of many pages starts with words from one pen and all that ...
Gavin Haycock

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