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