Jon Stocks has survived an attack by a very disgruntled black bear and two deep
economic recessions. He has recently achieved two lifelong ambitions after being
published in a poetry anthology, ‘Soul Feathers’ curled up next to Maya Angelou,
Bob Dylan and Len Cohen and finding one of his poems in his favourite bookshop,
Shakespeare and co, Paris. Next up, Space Travel.
Meet me and I shall know you, light and shadow,
a formless, fantastic distillation,
confection of smoke and fog and gaslight.
Meet me and I’ll watch you as you wander
dreamily up pea-souped side streets,
long neck hidden by black buttoned collar,
your exhaled breath a ghostly miasma,
drifting past the clanking city tram-cars;
the newsboy teases you, calling out your name.
Meet me on Fargate, waiting at Cole’s corner,
top hat and tailed, tapping with my cane,
yours for all eternity, my darling,
yours beyond the final cutting edge of time.
Late for your theater tea, warm hands wrapped in velvet,
hat pulled down over your pert, pink ears,
your diary shows me all your sweet conceits,
and makes me long to hold you — snug as the grave.
It came to morning and we were both baptised,
rolled in thistles of forbidden joy,
dazzled by sun rise. Sorrows deferred,
choosing to cherish the fleeting ache of love.
When later we stood, empowered, exalted
if a little bruised by the smear of words,
we crouched and wrote our names in the sand,
knowing the tide would wash them both away.