sensual body
folds
and curves
in the lazy silence
It is midday
And your hunger
turns to the afternoon.
A slow heartbeat
of whitewash hands,
Tender swells that roll in,
Trapped on an endless tide.
Nature is so graceful,
Your rippled shoulder
stretched so distant before me,
sleeping in the lazy sun.
No blemishes
does your blue skin show,
'cept the acne of one fishing boat,
A white spot 'pon perfect fabric.
You hide the scars
of yesterday.
The edges of your stormy wounds
left unhealed.
Whitewash fingers rub
against the rocks,
Tapping an endless tune,
A soft heartbeat
that pulsates from far below.
Death is so near me,
yet you are so warm.
19/7/92
Ben Fleming is (was?) a friend of mine from Australia. We've lost touch - literally, I've lost his address - but I've still got his poems. This one's my favourite. The photo I stole from someone's homepage, I think. But I have been there too, it's from Doolin, Ireland.
2 comments:
This is gorgeous poetry. I hope you can find your friend. Have you tried a Google search on his name?
Morgan, I don't know why I didn't think of that myself! I google for everything and everyone else.. There are quite a few namesakes around, but..
.. I found him! :) Thanks!
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