If I dared write
I would carve my words from a rock;
scrape a line with a flint
sparking off malachite,
or smell the sulphur linger from a struck match
as I flare what I feel to the world.

I would give you cadences Cuillin-sharp
or rolling as the ocean;
line breaks dangerous as a
ravine;
assonance subtle as the dying wind.
I would write of tears and dissolve your page.
I would write of drought
and you would scrape the dust from your hands.
The tinder of my parched heart

would spark forest fires.
I would growl a word
and you would hear the thunder.