Falling

    Our choices change the future
    evolution of the universe. His
    body is heaven’s plateau. A cold
    and abstract metaphor. In old
    age I will still remember the intimacy
    we shared. The dark secret of
    my childhood was my mother.
    Lack of mother love I suppose.
    Running down, running down to the purple sea. There
    was magic and loneliness in
    sleep. I dreamed at right angles.
    It was home and impenetrable
    sanctuary. I have wings on my back and sit at the window seat.
    I am no stranger to the mad dance of
    insomnia. The progress of heaven,
stones and the source of the word.

    I burn and ache. I am free of thirst.
    There’s a lightness behind my eyes.
    I kissed her face. Sweet. Innocent.
    Pure. Kissed her neck. Her shoulder blades.
    The image of her flickers in the
    night. She is the autumn leaf. She
    gathers the sun on her wings and
    I am in need of a room of my own. She’s the lost
    thing. Water transforms. Even
    sunlight floods, marks in the same way
    sobriety does. The call of fragile life.
    There’s the smell of grass. The smell of frying steak. The smell of a mountain.

    Christmas was the same.
    Presents under the tree.
    Insomnia. I am a girl again.
    Pure like snow but it is
    fleeting. This whirlwind.
You still come to me in a dream.

    Searching poets find a reward.
    I wish for flowers. After a bath,
    she is dripping. Foal legs. The
    translation comes with night.
    I went to boarding school in Swaziland
    and found otherworldly love
    there. A love for the environment.
    His beauty was haunting. So was Catherine’s.
Catherine’s laughter still is a thing of courage.

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Abigail George has two books in the Ovi Bookshelves,
"All about my mother" & "Brother Wolf and Sister Wren"
Download them, NOW for FREE HERE!