Words of love

The words do not flick lightly off my tongue
Like balls of spit that in my mouth are rolled
And then, with practised ease, succinctly flung

Across the yard to land upon the cold
Concrete. From throat or gut or rasping lung,
They must be hewn by axe where seams of gold

Fold beneath the earth amid dullard rock.
They must be grappled with in shadowed light
Deep, deep beneath the grey-eyed monadnock

That bears the brunt. By nature, words are slight
And brittle things. Mere glist’ning baubles mock
The sweat-brow of the poet in the night.

The words do not flick lightly off my tongue.
They must be grappled with in shadowed light.

For stones upon a necklace loosely strung
Are valued for the rock-scarred miner’s plight
And in their flaming lustre can be told
The aching earth-mother’s huge aftershock.

So lock these chiselled words deep in your young
And pristine heart. And later, at the height
Of pain, when I am gone and you are old
And darkness won’t retreat, unpick the lock.