Literary Yard

Search for meaning

‘The Feeling Returned’ and other poems

By: Christopher Collingwood

The Feeling Returned

The feeling returned
with the season –
the strand of your
sweater, caught beneath
the wing of a bird, unravelling
a forgotten desire, a moment
returned by the flock,
instinct carried beyond
our misgivings.

Knowing nature –
I saw the uneasiness
in their wild eyes, like the days
we slept apart, uncertain of
ourselves and the anger
that we felt, knowing we
could never work,
as you could never see
a child, while the birds
gave birth for the season.

Their wings swept
consequence into genes –
a vitality that brought
tomorrows offspring,
a willingness to accept
instinct, welcoming
chance as it moved
with the wind, giving the
moon no attention, the forgotten
reflection in the water.

We never found such
charity, love was more
that a seed of instinct,
offering welcome and goodbye
with the same lips, that’s why
you brushed your hair
behind the wind, as I watched
the birds’ graze upon a sunset,
we could never look
upon the sky, and live with
the same answer.


To Begin You –
in the Shape of Purple

Before I was you,
I was purple – a shaman’s
gaze, a shade of something
looking to be remembered, waiting
for a place in art, the space
between walls, looking
for a chance to create; I knew
who you were – the boundaries
shaped but not certain, a niche
of identity that welcomed
the corner, allowing each
tone to offer an opinion –
where you would live,
who you would be,
and who you could love;
I set out the pieces
and gave you time –
purple was the fill of your
construct, the factory
that made your face, the window
that shaped your eyes, an arch
that found you; the abstract to
start your personality, belief that
gave you a pallet, so you could
fill in the remaining colours
with your life, offering yourself
to the world, in something that could
really be remembered.


Sewing the Waves of Venice

Venice was never here –
your waves were sewed
into a fear-soaked dress,
a bouquet returning
from the dying canals,
a chorus of the winds
replying – ‘I’m sorry’,
shaping the world for
the ring that lingers;
a dress that becomes
an ocean, silk woven from
renaissance, wrapped tightly
for the moment, a photograph
that never drowns,
taking memory from
the streets you love;
the flowers, the houses,
the partner, a child –
an enduring dream of Venice
holding your hand,
all crafted into the
folds of a wedding dress,
dreams searching for
a home, love echoing
the Italian winds,
a glimpse of heart
for the scented streets,
a dress that lifted and fell
with your turbulence – a phase
of passing, as you became
unwilling to endure the ocean,
sailing on a masquerade,
for a city that would rise
outside the tide, waiting for
you to offer your life,
finding the right person,
not the right dress;
never realising that a risk
could offer you the world
beyond Venice, a chance to love
without the gown, to discover
what the waves will bring,
when love really matters.


Inspiring the Gaze of Gulls

the shore is always –
an edge of two beginnings

the nature of listening
before the next performance

when the days have drifted
the shore is derelict

and no sound can offer
the taste of the wind

only the exhaust that
drives you to the water –

a day conceited,
is the lie of artistry

tearing aspirations
into the smallest pieces

thrown to the gulls
as they swarm on promise

infinite potential raised
by wings to the sky

beaks release the chalice,
the taste of ‘alone’

waiting – is in the bird’s gaze,
disappointment of the waves

a rolling tally keeping
a lifetime of maybes

the wasted focus
that inspires the next beach

while chance delays – the shore
leaves you ungrateful.

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