The keening cries of seagulls circling
and wheeling in the crystal blue air
is a soundtrack for a movie ending
The plastic palm trees swaying
in an artificial breeze
Skin soaked in honey,
these picture perfect people
just trying to be real,
existing for this one moment
in colour
before returning,
like toy soldiers
when playtime is over
The keening cry of seagulls
is a loop tape
playing over
and over
and over
with each repetition
fading
into the cold of
radio static

Posted by Peter Brunton at 04:39 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

The vaulted arches
of palm trees
breaking through the canopy,

this is my church,
the fountain is a crucifix,
an alter, under
a stained glass sky.

My priest is robed in the splendour
of sunlight and splashing water.
These stone benches
encircling the plaza

are the pews, at which we sit and,
head bowed, pen to paper,
I pray.

Posted by Peter Brunton at 04:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Endlessly reflected, these infinite selves
stare back at me, stare through my eyes
paintbrush in hand
The canvas is a mirror, an eye, opening
onto an emptiness, that I can no longer name
They are boundless, beyond number,
these wild places within
and I can only stumble upon them
the rough ground opening underfoot
like a rabbit hole, for a child to tumble down

Posted by Peter Brunton at 04:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

A single tree drifts in the breeze
and a marshy stream curves
gently round into the spread of endless fields.
People, in the distance.
A fog blinded lake rises up,
to shape a hill on the horizon.
The foregrounds draws in upon
an ancient arch of stone,
it's pillared sides gnawed away by time.
But look closer, see here,
that the arch is not stone, but formed
from a notepad, two pens,
and a stack of old CDs.

Posted by Peter Brunton at 04:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

The flowers have opened tonight,
all along the streets of Brindisi,
a sky like black satin falling.
Folds of cloud tracing the wingtips.
Leaning in to take a breath,
the scent is overpowering.
Watching through the window
oil fires and light houses,
flickering across the bay
as we land. The city is a shape
cut from the darkness
by a hundred thousand lights.

Posted by Peter Brunton at 04:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

See how she stands on tiptoes,
to reach his waiting lips,
the airport buzz cocooning them
in sound

On tippy-toes, just like a ballerina
a ten year old girl in pink,
blonde hair tied back,
dancing
All grown up now

See how she falls away,
the gate controllers calling,
they might as well be calling
her name

She almost seems too eager
to be leaving, though she knows,
she must pretend. Her sadness is
obligatory

Her tears are well practised,
as she waves. Like those dance moves
long ago. He is an audience
of one.

Posted by Peter Brunton at 04:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

To John Singer Sargent's painting I will add
a road, black tarmac slicing
through smoothly weathered stone.
A rental car, driver's side door
smashed in. The cool shadows
doused in red siren light
as they pull my father free.
Those silent houses that crest the hill
are now a mass of cautious spectators,
windows filled with staring eyes.
The silence that hangs there,
heavy on every brush stroke,
has become a din of shouting voices,
paramedics and ambulance noises.
Over it all, my sisters cries
echo back to me, through the canvas.
Her prayers flung so far from the holy land.

Posted by Peter Brunton at 04:34 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

She wears a necklace of teeth
and pretends to be your prey
Watch closely now,
her hands (lips) are like lightning
Don't blink
or you'll miss
the switch

She wears a necklace of teeth
from the children she has tamed
She dances slow,
and as you come close
she pulls her red hood back for you

She wears a necklace of teeth
to place around your neck
It marks you as her own
and you, not knowing the smell of wolves
have become her snow,
her white

Now that she has tasted your blood
she will not let go

Posted by Peter Brunton at 04:34 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I am standing where the water
meets the sky
Breathing in the waves
The smell of storms and drownings
The Rock and Porte...
The rock needle... curves
like a rudder
to guide the waves
that hammer down the cliff
into a forest
The ocean melts into fog,
becomes a lake
Two little boys, with no buckets or spades
make sandcastles by the shore
and I realise that all things come back to this

Posted by Peter Brunton at 04:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

He draws in charcoal
on the whitewashed walls
of a ristorante,
down by the docks.
His face is weathered like the stone
worn down to the bone
by the sun and sea air.
His hair is whiter than the wall
that is his canvas.
If this was Britain, he would be
the oldest vandal
ever to be served with a court order.
His drawings are terrible,
and beautiful.
The hand is shaky, the pencil skipping,
the faces are misshapen, like his own.
Tracing the form of a plane
with my finger,
it is the drawing of a child,
not yet ready to grow old.

Posted by Peter Brunton at 04:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

This is where the world caves in
upon itself
The gentle cascade
of voices, sounds,
breaking like surf on the terrible silence
of 3am.

This bed is a beach tonight
an island lost to sea,
under an empty sky.
These words are a million grains of sand
running through my fingers.
As hard as I try, I cannot hold them
for more than an instant.

This is where the world ends,
and time comes crashing down
breaking the silence with everything,
anything, nothing.
This is a stopped clock,
and the sound of the waves
rolling in.

Posted by Peter Brunton at 04:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

It's funny how words can shift
and change
How no-one has to tell you
that Lunedi means Monday
not when you take the time
to follow the trail in your mind
from Lunar
Moon
Moon-Day

We're a nation of thieves
with every word we pass between our lips
we're just incriminating ourselves
This epistomological detective work
is just tracing the roots of our stolen words

It's funny how words can change
how we say “Expresso”
not “Espresso”
how we Anglicise,
and ostracise
How we sanitise our import culture
To sprinkle on our Tesco branded
Italian pizza
Trading “Coca-Cola” for “Tagliatella”

It's funny how words can shift
and change
How “Trattoria” over ever grill house
by some trick of the light
always seems to read “Traitor” in my mind

Posted by Peter Brunton at 04:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)