Another post to the Guardian Poster poems. It's becoming an obsession, but hopefully a learning curve too. This one I've tried not to rhyme...
The Moon spills its milky light
From its small pocket in vast denim sky,
Intermittently crossed by translucent clouds
Obscuring its blank marble face.
Extending its spindly pale fingers
It snatches into depths of darkness
Reaching wherever it is allowed
By the blaring man-made globes below.
They pierce the gloom, but remain silent
Unwilling witnesses to harsh scenes
Illuminating the noisy streets
Mute as the moon drifting hopelessly above.
Darkness swells around artificial shields
Under which the revellers clash,
Shining bright peacocks in vivid clothes
Sucking lurid potions through pugilist lips.
Men in checked shirts and sunday shoes,
With cigarattes dripping from loose fists,
Women with brassy bangles and glassy jewels,
They meet to fight, the night their battleground.
Storm Room - Janet Cardiff & George Bures Miller
7 years ago