Monday, December 6, 2010

The Storm's Weir

No one’s coming today
and no one’s going away.
Why are stones here
if they cover nothing?
What is there to sing
if the lyrics embody fear?

There is no pride love has
but the passion it pours
between the beloved’s thighs,
lips above, below yours.
When lovers dwell together
do they know how rare

their happiness will be
once the reaper passes
with his low-slung scythe
and all the lads and lasses
wish they were back in Eire
and near enough the sea

the rain sounds like rocks
on the sod shack’s roof
when a storm whips waves
to spill tides over our love
and batter what fierceness
a man and woman have

for keeps in this world
without pity or a scorn
that holds out no need
to be kissed, it alone
telling us all we know
and how far wind blows

our hungry flesh with fire
edging its skin’s pores,
noise that turns to lullaby
at dawn, where the sea
receives the wells of water
from rocks draining hollow.

(6 December 2010)

copyright 2010 by Floyce Alexander

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