Anam Cara

Skeletal

I can no longer trust my voice, its white

whisper is turning shrill, here beside me

your face is gone, withdrawn from a veil.

Desolate my words reach out to nowhere.

Outside rain refines the October light

mellows the restraint of the amber moor;

yellow gorse illuminates in expectation

yet one rag of cloud and the colours sink.

For us there is no embrace and nowhere else

to go with this hunger for each other;

Winter is our mother, her deaf hands rise,

feed us nothing but the grey bread of silence.