August

by

Crystal Dawn Allen

August.

The mountain ash is turning,
burning berries in the branches.

You see me moving towards you
silent and dry across the black sea
making waves.

I am no mirage.

No source, either.

Stone, gravel, sand. Glass.

Like a desert's final breath.

Once it was skin
that skin longed to touch;
now it is the sheets that soothe
and kisses betray.

***

August.

In my season
your words run dry.
Even the hot colours crumble.
Whispers are more audible,
but they mean less now.

They cannot create.
They cannot destroy.
The sun moves too slowly,
unravelling the day it makes.

***

August.

Notice there are always
3 crows
and never an omen.

If there are omens
I am too fully present in my flesh
to notice them.

I am too fully present in my flesh
to be affected.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at BRUNO
by: Paul Curtis
from: Woking, England, UK

To visit all of Crystal Dawn Allen's poems, click HERE

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