The Mullen

The Mullen

Tonight when the sand dunes of Perrenporth grow arms and crawl
back the length of Cornwall, across the downs and Dartmoor Tors,
through each shire south-side, to hum for me, quietly,
to rattle persistently on the handles
of a UPVC french door on this here Dorma bungalow,
in this small Rushmere hamlet, I'll know
that you too come with them:

You who paints a delirium of antirrhinums
on library walls and also upon my larynx,
you who cleanses the shakra,
who held my body steady against that fire,
knowing your tribe was welcome,
knowing only you could change an energy,
wield it gentle in your palm,
knowing I needed you, like a sister:
You who welcomes my warm head to nuzzle,
sometimes, like Trousers, like a cat
of whom I could not name padding
soft across a piano with confidence in their chaos.

I turn those heaving sand dunes home,
let them leave a little grain that I'll keep
in a desert coloured dress pocket
to return to you individually,
while we're skipping, slipping, tripping
through dreamscapes in the lover's nest
of one, or some other, beloved Totnes street again.