Ken's Poetry

Voices

Silver from a dusty moon-sea
spills a molten path
across the mirror lake,
silence sits cross legged
on a tilted shore.
The voices are gone now,
drowned by heart’s beat
and deep breath’s swell.
Kisses of light lick
at the wet lipped rim,
stones bubble and gurgle
contentedly.

Out of body, over the ominous forest,
he is straining to hear them,
breath held by fear:
but only the rocking-chair trees
creak in his ear.
They will come back, in time,
to taunt him, but for now
the space inside his head
ripples
with tranquillity.