PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The old cat suns himself

Stalking the wide dreamscapes

Of easy mice and roly dams

Stretched on a warm window-ledge

Of rough sawn ashlar tuff

Troubled only by the occasional rattling of the window panes

A slamming door, a passing car,

Or magma rising?



The farmer frowns on the terraces

Where only vines live now, (and how?)

His father grew almonds here, bergamots and lemons,

Before the wells ran dry.

The city, industrial neighbours, over extraction,

Or magma rising?



Gino guns the Alpha, chopped and dropped

He’s all in tune with his over-tuned joy.

He collects Isabella from the bank on the corner

And speeds down narrow streets,

Paved purple with cracked porphyry.

Home, the garage door jams once more,

Should he curse the builder and poor materials,

Or magma rising?



Isa, resigned, sighing,

He’s not the man for her,

She knew that in the first kiss,

But she thought “he’ll do for now”,

The jealous glances of other girls,

Are all she’s going to miss.

His true love is his car,

And she could never settle here,

So she took the job in Rome,

She’ll have to find courage,

And tell him soon.

Career move, fresh start, or intuition,

Of magma rising?