Pillow Talk

by Gordon Mason

I turn to read your note
left on Tuesday’s pillow.

The words have pale skins
of ghosts in satin.

Tears from buds
behind the confessional grill

of my eyelids.
You are only visible in your words,

your scent, your absence.
I hold this knotted jewellery

of emotions in my hands.
I press my nose into your perfume

and read until the last sentence
takes my breath away.

Bridge Builder

by Gordon Mason

A snell wind chips
its words into my head
like a stonemason.
If I build a bridge

to the warm scarf
of your arms,
the sky can blow out
and we shall stand

on the edge of space.
Mountains on the moon
will segment in orange
and in their thousand folds

our truths will lie.
We will gaze on a future
sketched in turquoise seas.
Like a prodigal boat

we will moor in a cove
known only to us
and I can die
quiet in your wrap.