The Cracking Of The Shell, by Richard Godwin

She brings me leaves from the field beyond my aching indigo window

Its veins of oceanic blue etched there

In hissing acid sleet that falls

Soundless to the dripping trees

She lays them by my heart

And wraps her tendril hands across my sweating

Scars that show no sign

Of whitening beneath the deep black deep lack

Of the man she imagined me to be

I root my hungry hand in the soil of her flesh

Her eyes change colour as she whispers

Unshackle the chain beloved and find me beneath the gravestone

But there the leaves are faded

They have no colour and no song in their stark

Brittle lacklustre death

And her eyes seek hesitation’s moment for some pitch perfect malady


The veil tearing

A glimpse

Of the broken Soul

Bound to a wheel

I try to tear the moss from the stone that hides my way back

The hard cold surface flaking away like my skin until the bones

Jut through the thin wrapping we carry with us

Is that all we are

And all of them all

The ones I knew are standing here at the doorway

Where the air feels like ice

And I cannot see where the corridor beyond this room ends

I am clutching for myself

But my hands fall through air

It seems to be the shape of broken eggs

And I can hear crying and my hand is filled with blood

But if it were only blood

The spent juice of living breath

Like a breaking tide

The familiar body and face now a shadow in this red twilight

The air assumes some liquid form

In its myriad mystery

Why so many Yew trees in the cemeteries

Why so many nights spent watching

The breath hollow and alone

I dig for her there beneath the broken stone