Souls at dawn

When all the faithful seemingly departed in November, some long lost lovers meet again…

Not a migrant

You must have been a beautiful woman entered his mind.

Families were gathering on the hill that mounted tender bodies of their relatives. She always loved elevated graveyards, their stones silencing the world that moved – children, cars and occasional tourists.  The barman handed two cups of Turkish coffee the way they drink it in Slovakia. They both watched the ‘mud’ gather at the top but he slurped it without stirring, catching the grains on his moustache.

Anya never cared for men with blue eyes, yet there he was, studying her profile in the poorly lit saloon. ‘What brings you here?’, she asked.

‘All Souls’.

The door curtain moved, bringing a whiff of rotten leaves inside for a moment but no one came in apart from a cat they didn’t see. ‘It’s been closed for years’, a woman was overheard outside. ‘Have you more burners?’, another one shouted. Several feet shuffled under the…

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Death to this summer

The MIST

Conjuring sailors’ dreams

brick-a-bracks from the shores

long gone.

The CLOUDS

painting the mood

led astray by the hills

heady heathers’

purply hair

going everywhere

at the same time, the WAVES

sirens’ of the wind,

crossing the waters

borderless, mapless

drunk on breeze

feet on the brink.

The MARINERS

ears to the seas’ end

muscly men with salty eyes

leaving toddlers behind

with their toys bouncing around.

The SEA RUMBLERS

polishing the rocks

with their boots

in sturdy clothes

killing the sea campions

as they kiss, they kiss

never mind

choppy waters

onto the world’s display

they make love

to the sea.

AND ME

no flowing skirt

no locks of hair

that foam away

into the Cornish mist

just a dream under a boot

squashed

like an overripe plum

dark damson

puce death to this summer am I.