My heart is a lead balloon.

Grey and empty as the world
on the coffee-coloured afternoons
when light strikes my eyes at odd angles. 

Helping chubb illusions chase their tails amongst the leaves. 

While light in dappled splashes stipples the bare brown table 

under the trees. 

Later. 

At night. 

Near to my window curlews scream like nothing you’ve heard before. 

In my dreaming
the woman with eyes like wild fruit dances on the taut strings of a huge guitar. 

As she dances she sings with sweet sickness
of her lost love. 

Her slim feet kick the notes up into the warm air. 

Taken from the collection Under the Dog Star with permission from the author