Under the great roiling, boiling curds of sky I lay
The moon somewhere; pinging the reflection of the sun’s rays
Back onto their backs, second hand, third hand light
Feeling its incompleteness, the cinema of its unthinking
Mind. Drowned by days, nights where only words come
Struck dumb or not dumb enough, they are an armour
Against; a barrier, an exposure to a relentless radiance

Something near to what I wanted to say

Not close enough, so keep using them to circumscribe
My finger pushing, coaxing, reassigning cloud colours
To each line, each filtered feeling, each stab at truth
Till someone understands at last, a lost father to myself
A core; my utterances there, understood and filled…

See through my dress to my nakedness
My mortal voice made manifest

For anyone who wants to hear.


About Veronica Aldous

Writer and artist, Veronica is a lecturer is Fine Art and Creative Writing. Her first book of poems, 'Moon Cinema' is now available on Now there is also 'Mortal' her second book.
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