Martin Chambers

Martin Chambers Header

You would not know it but onomatopoeia, when spilled to the floor by a drunken reveller returning home late, crunches underfoot.

      I know it was you,
      home drunk,
      full of simile,
      of pig in pen,
      of bull in china shop,
      of breaking wave,
      of tsunami,
      that in your mind,
      a tiptoe,
      and maybe you would have been,
      but actions speaking,
      suspicions sneaking,
      got away with it,
      but in your baggage,
      crowd around,
      your shadow,
      solid in the night,
      bumps pots,
      full jars fall,
      from shelves high,
      spill contents,
      like discontent,
      and words,
      not said,
      mean more,
      than the sound they make,
      so that now,
      the sound of snoring,
      is the sound of peace.