The intricacy of a body in the dark

These are the days of the clouds 
and colours of his childhood,
of the secrets of forgotten garages 
with unwilling doors 
and small-paned windows,
of the mysteries of broken glass, rust 
and enigmas of dust,

And of the sides of houses too, 
of shadows leopard-crawling over mossed brick, 
and cool green thoughts and concrete
crumbling to nothingness at the edge 
of tired swimming pools 
spun with holiday light.

The intricacy of a body in the dark, 
how it reminds him of a life 
lived a lifetime away, where memory 
tastes of salted skin 
after a day at a beach,
part sunlight, part ocean, 
and at the tip of its tongue
the bitterness of its end.

He stands, looking out at the waves 
and last scraps of surfers, 
imagining someone else watching him 
flared against sky leaking into cobalt.

He has been turning 
a perfectly good key in a lock
over and over his whole life 
but the door remains locked.

He imagines she stands behind the door
brushing the years between them from her hair. 

Now everything is silent and made of first light, 
except for the sound of that key turning helplessly
and the distant keening of gulls.

— Stephen Symons

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s