Being a Poetic Bastard

At Writers Connect this week organizer Oz brought in a selection of small intriguing ornaments as prompts for a ten minute exercise. This session was- as usual- the morning after the night before, being on a Sunday, and I'd had kind of a weird night out in Manchester involving a group of very drunk Welsh girls. Not as good as it sounds. But anyway, I was feeling kind of melancholy. There was something about this sculpture

that struck a chord with me. I felt like being a poetic bastard.

Unison

She puts a cheek against his face

and brings him to a warm embrace

his view of her is now distorted

nomadic plans are all but thwarted

becoming one, a human boulder

with his hand upon her shoulder

he is there for her to hold

and soon enough, they start to mould

into an almost rock-like feature,

no longer separate, now one creature

his gratitude for having met her

has turned him to an oaken texture

he starts to think of when he met her

and how his life became much better

he plans to live in pure monogamy

alone with her, cast in mahogany.