In the beginning the word was...Love

In the beginning the word was…Love


In the beginning the word was…Love;

A raspberry beret revered, behind a blush-masking easel,

A mature student, sketching skin on sand-coloured sugar-paper,

A male life-model laid bare, smudged charcoal, rubbed innocence.


In the beginning the word was…Blue;

A lightbulb hanging unshaded in a white box one single-bed flat,

An orange Ambassador, Bridgwater bricked, in a weed-scented garage,

A box of Lambretta parts, greased by morning-sickness on oiled beige carpets.


In the beginning the word was…Grief;

A bucket of never-ending bile, an ambulance siren piercing Good Friday,

An empty space filling prayer-worn-hands, an embrace,

A redundant breast where you will not be placed.


In the beginning the word was…You;

An angel caught in the flicker of a St John Street streetlamp, 

A bus-stop drunk-kicked repeatedly below a window-box of tender plants.

A life for a life. A chance.



A Wensley

24.04.2025


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