Helen Harvey

 

Morning Backwards

 
The slow thud thud of soap-softened glass
massages my mind in the morning.
It's the gossip of birds, leaping in shadows
of moon-starched shapes on the lawn.
And it heaves up the sun on what has been done,
and films the grass dancing in time, and the shine
of the dew slimed leaves, the bubbles on glasses,
crawling down wine stains like slugs.
 
We shrug off the time of the yellow-blush sky
and scrape out the beer from our bellies.
With nettles as pillows, and thorns for our sheets
my lips remain sweet at the tip of your tongue,
with a morning to greet. I sink in the soil.
My bottle rolls down and we breathe in the breeze.
The music drifts through and it falters, slowly
I sigh to the bass of the cello.
 
I spin past a table and knock it aside,
the floor is a-glitter with shattered escapes.
The froth creeps towards us, your face is a blur,
as we push out the creak in the door.
Stepping outside, past the sludge and the rust,
our lips begin trembling a moonlit dance.
     Revived, I ache    My name is lust.
Musician of Love, lay me free on the grass.

 

 

Helen was a commended Foyle Young Poet in 2006 and 2007

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