Prose & Poetry

welcome home, starling

you are safe now

Untitled

Untitled

Love, you told me, but not as if you
were an expert, with pomposity,
or in an overbearing fashion;

Instead as if you were in the midst
of discovering that hints of the
most wondrous of your impossible
imaginings had in fact been seen
within the noise of interstellar
space; within the never-repeating
patterns of every recorded flake
of snow; in the calculations of
an algorithm new-designed to
catalogue the deviations from
bilateral symmetry in the
human face; or in the finally-
deciphered creaking language of the
crow:

           with glittering excitement, with
growing apprehension, ignited
passion;

               Love, you said, was not a hard,
grey, Mesozoic, frost-enduring,
fine-grained chert; not the silent looming
dignity of prehistoric stones;
the scratching after treasures aeons
buried in the dirt; an arrow cold
and flinty, a pot sherd, butchered bones.

 

Love, you said, was greater for its mystery.

 

What, you said, if it should turn out that,
like Linear B, all love was, was –
Not lost epics of Patroclus and
Achilles - but a catalogue of
sheep, a list of debts, a dead record
of dry transactions preserved beyond
their time by catastrophe?

                                             Better
not to know, you said. Best just to love.

 

Alex Sherlock is a Frankenstein's Monster cobbled together from bits and parts of lost and unrequited loves. They live in Sorrow with their ghosts

Recipes for Wild Garlic

Recipes for Wild Garlic