Diving at last into my birth-water (Part 3)


‘My blue angel of cement

she cracked there and then.

A body, two, rolled on a pain canvas.’


With me, three, in frozen meditation space.

I stood of silence, my mind

blending with the red

as all the birds took flight

I unglazed her melting through the pavement,

would have if I could have,

it might have saved her.


‘He, too, the crow, at the funeral

in a tux and white gloves

is now a dead man.

It is not even his Work of Art.

That Silver gelatin print (350 by 270

Millimetres) belongs to the artist estate

and to Harry Schunk,

the man

who took the photograph.


I never got to tell her but all the same

She was my red fire heart gold. She is my

Fire in the heart of the void.’


Him? He would only paint the sky

And refused to paint himself.


Harry and I go to that tree

Sometimes and stare at a new gold vein

Trying to tell her tale.


Sweet worms massaging

Sun penetrated whispers

Of Laika still in orbit.


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