It was November the last time you touched me.
It was November and the leaves had done their changing.
Winter was calling, coaxing them to curl,
beckoning brown where Autumn had lit them.

In my head you are still at the foot of my bed.
One lightbulb humming golden on our skin.
This is how memory moves.

You are long and you are pale
but I remember you pink.
So you are pink. You are a poison.
Do you remember me laying on the floor that night?

perhaps a stupid thing
laughable, yes
but frustration is intricate
it's web works in mysterious ways -
for example:
a deck of cards.

a game, just a game i said
then i said it again
if you don't say it, it can't be true
so the reverse must work as well.

"GAMBOGE LICHEN WALK"
Margaret Ann Waddicor 2nd March 2012.

The wood that walks the path towards the lake has wind-
felled trees, they block the path, we have to make a detour
treading on the top of frosted crystals, a thousand diamonds glow
no more the wooden bridge rocks loudly as we pass, 'tis solid too;

The dead follow you sometimes
where mountains are lost
in a white avalanche of poems;
they wear keys around their necks
and you hear them jingle sometimes
but you think of windcatchers
and catch a waft of dirt from somewhere
deep inside another memory, filling your
nostrils with the scent of olive trees and
strawberry blossoms.

You read poems to old gods and lovers you
barely remember and pigeons follow your
crumbs, warming themselves in your breath.