(1) Christine.(New Version). (2) On Beachy Head.

                1.

         Christine. (New Version).



I remember the daisy chain I made for you;
You laughing like the small child that you were,
                                      innocent as a Butterfly;
A curved black feather crushed between your
fingers,
             A straw boater balanced on your head,
The crown torn open.


I thought that you would live
for ninety years.
But last night your friends cut through the door and found you,
A fifty year old woman face downward on the floor,
Two emptied vodka bottles by your elbow,
                  A burnt out cigarette stuck to your lips.
An unused railway ticket in your purse.
You looked just like a tattered fabric doll, a once loved toy
                  Chucked by a fretful infant.


And scattered all around you on the carpet,
The love letters that you had never posted
Lay in untidy heaps.
You had kept them in a bag under your bed
Stored with some fairground keepsakes, a handful
                                            of dried flowers,
A beat up hat, the remnants of a feather.



Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 23rd. - 24th. - 25th. 2015.
June 20th. 2015.
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                    2.

      On Beachy Head.



Edge,
Such a final poem.
Maybe there was nothing to say after that.
Maybe it was time for the black sky to fall.

Beneath the white cliff wall the seagulls are wheeling.
Perhaps if I dive now I can catch one in flight,
Hitch a lift on a small wet back.

Edge,
The raw waves rustle through the rough hewn shingle
A broken lifeline below my gaze,
I am not as blind as the martyred Gloucester,
But my luck ran out at my conception.

There is no Poor Tom to break my swift fall;
No strong arm to reach out, to pull me back.
Edge,
Beneath the white cliff wall the wave surge
Saps my will power, rips my nerve.



Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 21st. 2015.