Michael Thorne

The July Sun

Peace comes when the July sun is at its sharpest
drumming hard to dry the morning’s dew.
Cut grass and hedgerows load with scent,
the whisper of the horizon holds out
not too far, not too close.

Other times seem like this, but are not.
The trained focus of the easy mind,
a longer time of warm languid stupor
Herefordshire (or thereabouts).

The eternal acreage of childhood dreams, reminders
that little moments remain longstanding
in periods of ethereal endearment,
both to childhood
and now to you.

My Other Eye

Your coca cola glass is filled with water
from a reservoir somewhere,
your pot of marmite
since breakfast.

Your Christmas cards
wait to be sent
received
sent again next year.

I cut a glass eye, slip it in
but I can still see.

Michael Thorne © 2010

Lovers’ Corniche (Cairo)

The lovers huddle in corners,
faces exposed to the Nile,
backs to the smoggy onslaught.

Close pairs in every nook,
the women coloured tapestries
culminating in the hijab.

Occasional giggles
give gestures of stolen time,
stillness, while all about rushes
universal.

Two lovers lean in close.
They almost kiss,
but continue to talk,
with slowing words
passing only as each tries
to hold onto themselves
without falling in to the other.

They hang, mouths
breathing lung to lung
words their lips
would replace with kisses.

Passion,
free from inhibition
and fettered by it.

The Museum of Antiquities

It takes me a minute
to convince myself I’m not
in a shopping mall in Dubai.
These are the real thing,
the ancient stone of Egypt.

The mark of the human mind
draws me to them like I am drawn
to a hill to mark nature’s mind
but the worship here is different
for I may pass judgement.

I reserve it. Who am I to know
that stone carved thus
is anything but the beginning of time,
the glowing worship of human form
set in a membrane of decay

Amun and Mut shatter in front of me
cursing their own unity.
Restored they sit defaced,
aged and ashamed,
though we still gather to worship.

Michael Thorne © 2010