silent aitch

Narcissus, the sun is flatlining yet still warm as the glow

of wine on the mind that has wisdom. Sanguine of the coming,

watchful of the storm warning the pulse of Ezekiel,

I dreamed that in a city dark with whine saved by philoxenia.

Today would be a nice day for a stroll in the garden

of France, seeking nature that is never a strange land.

With a kiss of calm on a map without borders, we walk

tranquil in the peace and passion of wild things.

A thrown herringbone blanket twists as ache wood,

long hair tangled around a baby’s finger, weaved feathers.

Not goslings, ducklings quack and fading quick,

quick, they do echo of memories sweet reverberation.

That famous winding chinon path of rhyme with rumination,

initialled wooden bat connects with a dirty fastball,

down to the bone. In his vintage he sat tall, my oread.

Omegashock low hum, this is no dream at all,

whisked away in the buzz of apiary bombination!

The bee does not fear the wasp until it is there.

Lay down in the grace of the earth with silent aitch

in hate consuming here, with the ghost of future fears.

Lay down in the space between stars and birds,

fortified in sounds rolling on the Vienne, relax threat

posture. The dauphin sets the heart free! With osiris blue

disturbing an eagle owl in deep reflection, we share

silence. haiching the whine is all that’s left running

my busy mind, dropping and adding whatever honour

heir. Lay down with musk in lavender and herb.

The word hour is written with a silent aich! touching end,

It gives us possession of our hour free of despair.

our hour free in nature belongs to us. In chinon I scream,

“unite we have nothing to lose but our aitches” laugh echo!