Oath
There is no mathematical proof for love
no OS map to recovery.
Too many footprints in the snow treading water
too many blank faces that follow
without pausing to gauge the wind
or crush a leaf in their fingers.
But every person has a name,
every tree, every flake of snow…
Quaver
Your hands search for my keys
through smoke
and jazz grows through their fingers.
I want to feel the weight
of you, on me.
to mark my heart this night.
Instead
I hold your purple coat –
up.
As it grows heavy
with copper coins.
Winston Plowes lives aboard his floating home in Calderdale with his lucky black cat, Fatty. He teaches creative writing and his collection of surrealist poetry Telephones, Love Hearts & Jellyfish, Electric Press was published in 2016.
https://www.facebook.com/winston.Plowes
http://www.winstonplowes.co.uk
Randomly Accessed Poetics 