estás en Sin tocar

Ene 18 11

Gordon Mason, Escocia

Dream Catchers

Black continents of night sky.

Moon crusted oceans

where dreams are caught

by nets of fishermen.

And blinks of eyes

miss ever changing coastlines.

If the fishermen catch

the tide, dreams

will be remembered

when sheets are pulled back.

*  *  *  *  *  *


For you, two will be a forgotten age

when each footstep of the day

disappeared like breath off the sand

and the stars fizzled out like sparklers

as the last Angeles of the day tolled faintly.

But I will be the keeper of your dreams

for I have carved these footsteps in drying cement

and collected the stars in an applecart.

When you open your colouring book

and crayon spills from the orange waistcoat of a sunrise

I will look into the blue shadows

in your bottomless eyes

and try to answer the big questions

you ask out of little details.

*  *  *  *  *  *

Antonio the Dancer

every time

one wildflower tears

like a wind song

locked feet


*  *  *  *  *  *

My Village Through A Gate

On the border between

intimate and open,

a window’s length of street:

spring water bends

through twelve pipes

the way light trembles.

Withers of heat worm

on white walls.

As the sun sneaks in,

my eyes reach out

like a child who stretches

for the moon on tiptoe.

My fingers want to grip

the fountain water;

to crack it into crystals

that will form bracelets

how this village

has encircled my heart.

*  *  *  *  *  *

Solitary Man

Dust makes its traces

around his feet.

His face is buried

in the greyness of his arms.

There is nothing here

to fill his clothes

with life and fire.

Flopped in a dead wind,

he is on the edge

of discovering amnesia.

But the artist

will not let him die

in this cave of thoughts.

From the shallows of sleep,

the south-east sun blinks

like a winter well

fed with coins:

an echo of spring.

Catapult to Mars