Is this a prose poem Bob? Just wondering if so, whether you set out to write
it that way or it just happened.
Cheers,
Frank
>
>YES
>
>So quietly, like an old mammal dying in winter,
>the blood orange sun bled for us again last night.
>Yes, like Bellingham salmon, we’d muscled our hidden ways
>even when we nuzzled under duvets, quiet as water,
>making a point of respecting each other’s loud strength.
>Yes, we did not know whose cars, in mornings as we woke,
>crunched by like bacon sizzling. They were those we never knew,
>those who never sing to friends, who saw us but didn’t see
>the vast silences, weighty as unpronounceable mountains,
>their glens’ curves, motionless with twilight and snow.
>Yes, many telephone lines squirmed with our chuckles
>between the times we rarely spoke. O Virgin,
>O Newcastle trains that had trembled many single lovers
>on the long sleeping journeys to their hearts. Do you hear them?
>Do they still chink by like Walkmans playing tunes we love?
>Yes, I want to remember you stood in my dream, always
>as huge as Gateshead’s Angel glowing in morning’s light,
>hear you as you stoop and drape the width of your wings
>over the thin swerve of the Millennium Bridge
>embracing me – your rust on my hands - as I rise.
>Or will all I hear be the sighs of my clothes as I dress,
>hands emerging from sleeves to pull zips?
>
>
>Bob Cooper
>
>(Oh yes, if you're not in the UK, "Virgin" not only sell CDs and stick
>their
>name on cans of Coke, they also try to run trains...)
>
>
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