Head of the Stream

You stood, mostly naked in the patches of sunlight and shadow

as though God’s hands were patting you dry.

The stream carried silver on its back, touched your feet and ran off

to tell gravity. 

The photographs that I have, still, show it all so clearly:

The more I loved you the more your eyes creased with tragedy.

I kept your eyes to make you free.

 Laocoön with Persimmon Pomade

A thousand Icaruses fall like snow into the snow-melted seas

I would ask you, sir, to consider that:

all that fell, all that you did not care about.

Corteccia’s Gloria Patri is slowly gluing together the sleeping words

from inside its glass storm.

Night falls through the fingers of night.

How must the past have looked to you ? All those small arms sinking

into the black-hat waves

all the cries that you whistled through

all your tirra lirra crooned into the mouths that filled with ice.

And even if they were later dragged to the surface in a net, 

you could always turn to your mirrors, turn and sing something 

meaningless. Tirra Lirra.

What I have learned is that I did not come from you —

You who were so lost that even the dead

                   couldn’t come from you.

Announcement

This is to be a blog of the poetry of Adrian Purcell Heathcote. Most of my poems are published in journals magazines or in collections. This blog will include some of these published works but also some that are not published, are yet to be published or will never be published. It's a good opportunity to just let it all flow.