Voices are fluid,
tumbling over words,
caught at the corner of mouths longing for connection.
The murmur of tongues loosened by cold pints - sun snatched minutes in coats on benches.
The sight of groups of bodies.
All tagged bristol writers
Hours pour away from me
in this space with you,
skin on skin, touching.
tuck me under your wing,
this soft-cottoned night
these smudges of time
are beautiful nothing
- just the sight of you,
hair skewiff, star-fishing
He is the turn of Autumn
He is the feel of a brown suede boot
laced up with folk songs and wine.
He holds all my laughter in little jars of pickled time.
His voice is the harbour where I moor my boat,
where footprints fan out in grains of sand.
Peppercorns
Has your tender soul
ever been crushed
like a peppercorn
in a pestle and mortar?
Well let me tell you,
a pinch of you
can ignite fires
on the wettest of tongues.