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My grandmothers mermaidstories are over the ground
moldy and old like the book of portugese economics
and its hard to piece toghter stories when you dont understand
the language or the logic
there used to be a trinity one i never knew
but the black season is washing over fast
and love and laughter and goodbyes in the kitchen are the last
white rose is spiraling in sea this new years and washing
to the waves and song
and they questioned you when you said you had thorns
but they lay beneath like cancer dark and black and biting in
and i remember going in the the leeds art gallery and seeing the
beaver looking into the washing machine
I wish i could wipe my life clean like a razorblade and i want you well and holy again not praying to god for the end
i wish I could cut away the bad of life and let the paper of the rest
make roses and snowflakes and impossible stars
for valen and vile times I have a heavy and black and bleak state of the heart I am drinking tea in bones
that are not going frail and light
they might not be featured in brighly lit auction houses
but have a worth more than gold and silver slivers of the moon to me
in my skin in my dreams and the days of rain and memory
I bind it all like my great great grand father in books of word
and song and seal it with a white white yorkshire rose
still and blooming despite the wilt of inverno

© 2006 Phillip Jagger