bringing it home
outside the pub the trees shone gold then ruby
as the sun tried to leave. I held it up
for long moments, clutching at its rays
and its power to melt cars, helping them morph
into the shapes of distant hills, or clouds
looking out at the harbour, as the edge
of another world , another view, seeps in
rearranges stones in me, moves my clouds on
in silent dances, puts in a fleet of laden vessels
carrying the treasure of the universe
until the voices in the bar break in
she said you can still see half the scar
he left me with. someone else was fucking this
and fucking that, and a TV glared down from the wall
and said that four were killed today
and suddenly the ships were ghosts,
clouds were unimportant
the sea now miles away
Paul Burns lives in rural Cheshire, working with his wife in their flower-growing business, playing guitar, and writing when he can. Over 15 years ago he had several poems published in magazines such as Staple, Tears in the Fence, and Purple Patch. After that long break he joined Jo Bell’s 52 Group last year and recently one of his poems appeared in Obsessed With Pipework.