CLIFF FELL

 

At Your Bedside

 
We always return to the cause of things: 
a fridge that rattles in the dead of night 
the journey of clocks into the blue-time – 
nothing occurs without its good reason. 
 
A fridge that rattles in the dead of night 
the white bed where we sit with you: 
nothing occurs without its good reason – 
starlight sends an echo from the past. 
 
The white bed where we sit with you 
and hold your hand to catch you falling – 
starlight sends an echo from the past 
that tastes of salt more pungent than oceans. 
 
And hold your hand to catch you falling, 
to catch the world that’s poised on your lips 
that tastes of salt more pungent than oceans 
and the scent of lilies deepening the air. 
 
To catch the world that’s poised on your lips, 
the flutter of feet as they slip away 
and the scent of lilies deepening the air 
unwind the coil into its silence. 
 
The flutter of feet as they slip away 
the journey of clocks into the blue-time 
unwind the coil into its silence – 
we always return to the cause of things. 
 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cliff Fell is continuing to work on a second collection of poems, called Beauty of the Badlands, though he spends far too much time trying to brush up his rusty Latin.

 

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