Four poems by Morgan Downie

the wedding song​
 
it is smoke this song,
the ash that sound leaves.
there a man in dark glasses,
the sun in crazy glints,
his teeth flash golden.
who could not love
such a man, i said
and the shadows of the trees
whisper that this is so.
 
there a woman, down
from the jetstream,
long legged and high
on her barstool, cracked
nail varnish tapping
against a shot glass.
oh now, that was a lullaby
and then a lament.
her voice gone in a splintered
rush of yellow cabs,
a blur of engines.
 
and of others, yes
there was my father’s hand
and yes, a mother’s love,
hidden down in the long shadows.
i feel those things like old photographs,
tinted postcards sent from the front,
the turf of memory carved into
a battlefield, long fields of wheat,
poppy-strewn, blood red blooms
casting pollen up into the air,
spilling out all the secrets
 
when asked of love
i see that printed word,
a circle i’ve been taking
from circular to circle line
and all the stops along the way,
so long i swear i met myself,
saw who i was with, remembered
that i didn’t want to speak to me,
the sea at my feet lapping
saying all of it is true.
 
and you who hold me now,
how is it you came to pen me,
inclined across a different voice?
we are like an old married couple
they say, and me so undeserving
that it makes the laughter come.
we so like an old married couple,
this life i’ve stumbled into,
it makes the laughter come.
and those clouds up there
in the dazzling blinding blue,
they nod and say this is so.
 
 
 
 


trees lounge
 
there is birch, powder thin, skin silvered
by the countless bar years that ash his memory.
birch, the hustler, haunts the pool table,
cue shaking in his hand like a divining rod
and stories that never existed tumble from his lips,
speaking to no-one, mouthing words into empty air.
 
apple, a mermaid’s daughter she says, but all
goodness cored out of her, her mouth a gash,
a streaming pour of rot. straw-blonde, perched
on a bar stool high as her heels, she shrieks
at the world, stares into bottomless glasses
at the creatures without name that swirl within.
 
and oak, hard man, silent type, always in his spot.
the same spot, they say, he left for a twenty stretch,
an ugly crime, unpremeditated, never said sorry,
welcomed the years like a tree welcomes lightning.
doesn’t say much, one to avoid, we see it in him,
the inward fire, eyes ablaze, a waiting thunder.
 
 
 
 
 

notes from a colour chart
 
13-0858-tpx
despair, despair is yellow,
the yellow of biohazard suits
thorned with warning, visors misted,
faces smeared into anonymity,
 
18-4434-tcx
luck, luck is blue, arrives on an old bus,
wheel arches winged with chrome,
steps itself down into the dusty street
dancing to the rhythm of endless possibility
 
12-6204-tcx
laughter, laughter is silver,
precious as mercury and just as quick,
the perfect alembic to measure the heat
of your voice and mine, blended
 
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love, the memory of love, is aquamarine,
lives in sea-caves blushed with coral,
verdigris upon drowned bronze,
scallop shells rising in waves of foam
 
6-ec
and black? black is a boat,
the colour of sleep, dreamless,
wide as the farthest ocean, star dusted,
and sky to the horizon
 
 
 
 

 
notes on grass
 
descriptors pencilled in
from hubbard (main key)
some detail crossed out
 
in the margins a sketch
of the sun and the words
you are beautiful
 
spikelets on stalks 
spikelet without bristles 
spikelet 2 or more flowered
spikelets stalked borne on panicle
 
glumes shorter than lemma 
ligule membranous 
spikelets the same 


lemma entire 
lemma rounded on back 
lemma awnless

spikelets 3 - 20 flowered 
spikelets erect 
leaf sheath united 
spikelets over 12mm long
 
tentative identification
glycera fluitans
floating sweet grass
 
a meadow
i shall not
walk again

Bio: morgan downie is a short story and poetry writer. an island man, he finds mainland roads no less circular. he is a friend of the neighborhood cats and likes to smile at strangers.

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