Sleeping Stranger

Well, I’m “home”. Home in England. It’s cloudy and grey, but that feels about right for England.

I got through the rest of camp without any more serious setbacks, and now with a bit of money in my pocket, I’m planning on getting up to Edinburgh for the Fringe Festival at some point.

But first, it’s time to get on with some serious writing. With little better to do with my days, I need to get ahead in my writing, so in case of future emergencies, I have blog posts to post. That means getting some short stories down on paper. It means drafting and writing some entirely new poetry, instead of just fixing up some old stuff. It means setting aside some time to think and not get distracted. And now’s the time to do all of that.

So, anyway, to start us off, here’s a new poem.  Not sure if the start is any good or not. It’s a list, but it’s a natural first reaction that builds… so…. well, let me know what you think.

Sleeping Stranger
Sleeping Stranger

Sleeping Stranger

There’s a stranger asleep in a park,

and I’m in the park, near him.

A hot day that drives crickets frenetic,
but leaves us in lethargy.
A light blue top on his fine shoulders goes well
with his dark tanned skin and short brown hair
– some weathered long shorts, and
he’s still wearing shoes. I’ve taken mine off.

He’s lying on his back, face up into the shade,
eyes shut and an innocent smile, and his arms –
wide outstretched, vulnerable and powerful,
two slender fingers curl through grass
as if reaching out for something.
A useless purity, an unstudied grace.

I want to know him, this sleeping stranger.
I want to know why he sleeps on a hot Thursday.
I want to see his eyes and teeth when he smiles.
I want to be old friends already, to ruffle his soft hair,
to jump astride his lazy hips and knock the wind out him,
to lift his head in my hands and kiss his smiling face.

But he is a stranger in a park.

And when he wakes I’ll be gone.


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