Most pictures and words from Anthony C Murphy

Monday, 12 December 2011


Your cold voice calls at five in the morning
Through the gap I had left for night’s stale breath
Before sun or gulls’ elemental yawns
You drunkenly whisper of

And take me with you this rotten harvest
Bury us deep, slow the blood in our chests
We sleep ‘til spring leans its leaves to the wind
Green in our dreams free of care

We wake to fresh scenes and receding dementia
A foot of snow upon the pillow
And headstones at our feet
The pile of cones on the sill are open
And winter comes in like a bear

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