Time at The Anvil
A black cumulonimbus,
Shocks the matter behind my eyes.
And is soon rushing over the rocks,
Under the arches of the bridge,
Making a fuss,
Distracting me from the passage of time,
Like a woman’s secrets,
While the jelly of my eye,
Which, one cold December to come,
Will be rotting,
On a broken, bloody pint glass,
In a bin bag behind a pub,
Far north of here,
Dries in the wind.
I will lean against the blackened bricks,
One-eyed, unsteady in the alley,
Where the wet stone,
Of the bridge beneath our hands,
Began to fall away.
The warm wood groaned under our young feet,
While we crept the boards and balconies,
Of the old millhouse.
It could all burn,
If it would excuse me from this blinder.
The pink head of the match explodes,
Causing it to fall from my hand,
Between the dry and ancient timber.
I cleave into a nearby table,
My hand finds a steak knife on a greasy plate,
And smashes the pint glass.
I’ll never be rid of this headache.