It all falls close but
not quite touching.
a rumour for most
a second of dread.
Dragging your body
full-circle from the floor,
leaving the bottles to form
their own choir of decay.
Or on the bedside
table of an old man,
who has lost his home,
can’t quite remember his name,
but has hope
and moments so profound
he recalls that beauty does exist.
His wife, the one with the Swarovski crystal smile
and hair that reached her hips,
even as torrents of grey
shining under the sun.
Or a man who buried a friend
and 149 more to the state.
But they wouldn’t know their names
or recognise their faces,
but he still carries their image
in his eyelids, religiously
as if his body is a prayer sheet.
And comfort that they are happier that way-
with the earth as their feather.
Because some people find beauty
where there is none to the naked eye.