waiting, 96

By the 96-line waiting,

rattling steel moves the many,

where amidst tongues wagging and shifting

comes the colours –

full and charged in the waning sun

moving on and me.

.

To where, I’ll never know,

the colour of the shell like snow,

but not biting, instead burning

at something deep, forcing back

the weighted din of the madding stack

that tapers …

.

To blood orange, fall the waves

that frame the snowy shores for me.

Wherein moored pools of evergreen,

to catch my straying, passing eye

from gaze afar,

bathe my mind so sweetly.

.

Thin cherry waits not far below,

pursed ripe and tight against the air,

and suggestive of a sharpened tongue,

used for play and dare –

where I should dance and find

a boy more loud.

.

But, alas, the bell invades

drawing forth the homebound wave,

and your blackened weave with ready feet

withdraws with a glimpse fading –

at least from the iris,

everlasting the hue.

.

…

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