Peter Lilly: Poems

Your hair is blonde it reflects In green flecks, the grass As the water does the sky. At the end of the damp sand And the water of dusty clouds You talk to the ripples and the bubbles Dropping shells in the lapping. You talk the same language of expression For this is the calm constancy of l'étang Not the constant change of crashing waves. Beneath a sunset that marks us With a strong desire to remain I see it reflected in the turquoise of you eyes, a minute flame. In the water, the sun's bridal dress  Drapes an enormous fiery train And proudly L'étang de l'Or  Bares its burnished name. L'étang de l'Or, probably best translated as 'The Golden Marsh', is a large marshy lake between Mauguio and the Mediterranean Sea. This week I walked there with my son and we played at the waters edge before watching the sunset.

Open. Glancing in toxic, hated and simmering shadows. Scolding these curious claws, clattering tarmac in retreat. Always open. Fixated onto logical arguments of crescendo victory. Volume defeats thought with every drop of poison. Still open. In determination, just if I can taste another day of this dirt, but delay is denial of the basics and death becomes you whilst you're still warm. Forced open. Fear of being in truce with your unwanted images, illuminated eyelids never stop with those twisted faces. Half open. Well, come in to my chasing exhaustion. Movement should be left to the animals that pursue me. Wide open. Start yelling suspected memories at my silhouette my spine bends with the slats of this palate that is my solace. Perpetually open. I may jinx my survival with hoping for harbour But this ocean has been licking at my soars for three etern...