1.
June 25th. 2016. From the Roof of Tate Modern.
A black spot on a sheet of paper.
An ink blot relentlessly spreading
Like mould on a kitchen curtain.
A tumult of sharks darkening the water
Until the whole surface is scuffed
And clarity becomes impossible.
A distant smudge of cloud spreading east
Until all blue is lost,
And just one splash of red disrupts the greyness,
A patch of blood seeping through a bandage.
We watch the wild storm gathering over London,
And when the thunder cracks above our heads
There is talk of a ghostly Blitz high in the Heavens,
And the Mead Halls of Valhalla imploding like dead stars.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 27th. 2016.
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2.
Dead Thorn.
That woman with a thorn lodged in her heart
Sat waiting for her husband to return,
Sat grieving quietly by the telephone.
"Only he can cure my pain", she softly whispered.
"Only he can dig this ancient thorn right out".
In due course she telephoned the local doctor,
A man who knew her case from A to Zee.
"But your husband died last December, don`t you remember?
I concluded that he died of no known cause.
But you seemed to think you killed him with a kiss".
"Oh no I did not", the grieving woman whispered.
"He died because we had lost the will to love".
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 22nd, - 23rd. 2016.
July 24th. 2020.
liked both of these poems but especially the Tate Modern one (as at 27 June)
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