Sunday, 8 September 2013

One night








The moon is a moue of silvery gloss
above the remains of the camp;
no sounds of footsteps, they’re muffled by grass
and I’ve put out the single lamp.

 

He presses together my palm and thumb
and gently tugs off my bracelet;
unbuckles his holster, but still the gun
is left where it’s easy to get.

 

A pebble’s sharp under bare shoulder blade
it slices flesh open - love hurts;
the air aches in darkness and wrings the shade;
the barrel’s too close for comfort.

 

The day comes awake, he’s already gone -
the grass is flattened where he’s slept,
disturbed earth shows where the holster was thrown
and a deep mark where the gun was kept.

 

He rides somewhere with the gun at his belt
and my fears here weave talismans;
but victory and glory can’t be compelled,
nor peace at the point of a gun.





 

6 comments:

  1. but victory and glory can’t be compelled,
    nor peace at the point of a gun.... true that! nice composition, very lyrical too

    ReplyDelete
  2. The image of the gun, overshadows all!

    I hope you'll consider participating in the Kissing Blogfest going on all week. Your poetry would add a wonderful touch!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thanks, Yolanda. Esp for the fest alert :) will try.

      Delete
  3. I love this line...'no sounds of footsteps, they’re muffled by grass'

    Wonderful poem and congrats on the century.

    ReplyDelete

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