Away.

Gone now.

Last light of sun
stretches, slithers across
frozen water.

Air bites lungs,
decorations shine out festive.

You are everywhere but
where you should be.
Everything turned inside out;
I walk around
with even my skin on the wrong way.

Without you,
nothing is as it should be.
But it is as it is.
And you are away,
gone with the dying winter.

Work in progress.

I want to be
your heart thumping
life-blood;
the fire in sun
as it warms your early morning skin.

I want to be
your cigarette,
curling blue smoke upwards
that you gulp in.
Softly held,
and longed for.

Most of all,
I want to jump
to the centre of all your atoms
and sprinkle them in the air
so you will always be around me.

I breathe you in desperately.

Restless.

Restless trees in stormy air,
light darkening, night settling.
Sit. Talk, talk.
Reanimating words and
shape moulding touch;
me, brought to life.

In the garden.

Standing with my tea in the garden,
looking at the fresh,
new earthy-mud bluebells,
and you sitting in the shed,
watching me;
we could be happy.

But I ask you a question
and you look as if to say
don't talk about that,
let's never say it,
and I stare back,
your eyes saying
you bitch.
You bitch.

Over and Over.

Begin again for me.
Tell me all you know,
what you don't.
Feel my cheek in your hand,
soft and new and flushed
only for you.

Begin again for me.
See everything changed;
find your favourite part of me.
Kiss it gentle-soft,
love my skin and
burst your world open.

Begin again for me.
Let it be raw,
as I begin every day
for you.

My Granddad Tells a Story.

He tells us stories of hot sun and hop fields,
packed lunches and early mornings,
walking in the grey dawn to start picking.
His long days, the night-time spent
sleeping under hedgerows,
his cheek cooling on the dewy earth,
to start working when the dawn chorus
warbled in his ears, and the sunrise
stained the fields fiery.

Inside his house are parts
of an accumulated life,
a torn-up photograph
all scattered in bits. I wish
I could piece it together,
gluing the fragments with careful hands.

We are never allowed up the stairs.
I used to sit at the bottom, wondering
what he was hiding, while my brother
played with the woodlice
crawling along the skirting.

I am older now. I realise I’ve become an intruder
in a room full of grief,
an unwelcome burst of the present.
I see him in his chair,
watching his old TV.
He likes to sit silently.

At the end of his garden is a green shed,
choked by the ivy that curls in and out
of the cracked and dusty windows.
Only a gooseberry bush
stands carefully pruned,
planted by Nan in some past year.

He doesn’t wear his wedding ring anymore,
and for all his stories, his real secrets
wait behind his lips, dammed up
like a river that threatens to flood.

When we are Seventy.

In the park we used to drive past
an old man sits.
His walking stick rests on his knees
and he just stares.
Walking past, a lady
with a rounded back and grey hair
stops in front of him.
They are alone,
and she moves towards him,
touches his shoulder with hands
veined like the wriggle of worms.
They are somewhere else,
locked in a stare,
young again,
and the tenderness in her hand
overwhelms him.
They embrace like old lovers.

When we are seventy,
would you let me touch your shoulder,
or would I walk on,
distant recognition with a slight smile,
reminded of a need
and desire for help
that I deserted?

The old man smiles.
They part,
the intense closeness of their youth
forgotten.

Strangeness.

I stand above everything.

The ordered streets open themselves up to me,
and below, shiny roofed cars battle their way
around the roundabout.
A street lined with trees yields up its pale pavement
and white stone buildings
to the sun.

The other day we walked up a hill
to the round domed building,
past the buskers and strange,
foreign shops,
and looked down at this same city
from a different angle.

Tomorrow,
we will stand outside the great cathedral
and let small birds eat out of our hands,
instructed by the strange man
with a smile that holds the world’s joy
when they flock to him.

And perhaps we will get lost again,
finding our way to a bridge over the Seine
with a string quartet playing on it
at some late hour.

Then, as now,
with strange sounds in my ears,
this is life.
This is living.

Springing into Life.

For the first time today
the sun held warmth again.

Children filled the parks
and the spaces in the town centre,
willing it to be summer,
for half term never to end.
People began to fill the streets,
slowly at first,
still clutching their umbrellas,
then faster as they emerged from
their winter shrouds.
A band played somewhere,
and the sky was shot with aeroplane lines.
Everything was starting to unfurl.

We walked among the blooming world
and you held my hand
making plans for the summer.

Homecoming.

The light begins to fail.
In a loud, hot,
bustling carriage I slump,
staring outside as my face
becomes visible in the glass
against the darkness of the tunnel.
Suddenly a field emerges,
sloping in the long evening light
towards my reflection.
Failed mountains rise,
not quite tall enough, but beautiful,
silhouetted against the light.
It is as if the sun descended
at that point in time
just to remind me
what I have missed.
We pass tumbledown buildings,
moss covered and shadowy,
reminders of my predecessors.
But for now, as the train clatters into the station,
this is my land,
and I am made of it.

Just a Relic.

The information tape
tells me this was a dining room,
a blackened reminder of former splendour.
People used to travel from all over
for the summer parties
that spilled out onto the sloping lawn,
down to the fountain.
That too, now just a relic,
a huge mossy man rising out of a pool,
one of his hands crumbled,
sunk to the watery depths.

It reminds me of going to lay flowers
on my Nan’s grave.

Music from the ballroom sounds in my ears
and I touch the cool bricks.
Ghosts of stairs decorate the walls,
but there is no remainder of the floors they led to.
Isn’t it strange
that the ceiling has become the sky,
and the people who lived here
have disappeared?

In the graveyard, a fading inscription read
‘Oh how I miss her,
but only a bleeding heart alone
can tell I have lost her’.
Now her name,
even the one who inscribed
an eternal message of love
has gone.

Time rolled through me
as I realised its immensity.

Invisible Kite.

Monday morning stung my eyes.
The cold ached my ears
and I looked up towards the hills.

Sunday afternoon.
Gravel slipped and rolled underfoot,
and families with dogs were caught
laughing and shouting
on the stinging wind.
At the top, I looked down,
fast breaths, cold air
caught in my throat.
The town below was bathed
in pale winter light,
and the shadow of the hills
stretched over the county beneath.
A kite broke free from a shouting child
and floated away,
lost in the slowly descending mist.

For a moment, I had risen back up there,
but I was just
stood in the street,
smiling.

In the Evening.

In the light of streaming golden dust
I lie on my cold bed
and stare at the last patch on the wall
of the fading day, orange on the white.

Distant sounds in the street
murmur away, a babble in the background
and there is just me, growing cynical,
and this silence.

When I am old, I would like
to see you anew,
and see if this has faded too.
To watch your eyes skim my face
as you recognise the girl you knew.

To see if I recognise you.

When everything else dies away
I wonder if this will be the same,
or if, like everyone says,
it fades. You need more.

I wonder if when we are old, and time has passed,
we will still be eternal.

Naked.

I saw him when I walked past his door.
He was all huddled up in his duvet,
shaking and sweating and scratchy voiced.
‘Not sleeping very well’,
he stated, looking at me.

We were silent, then
I offered him a hot water bottle,
small compensation.
No smile passed across his face
and dark circles ringed his sad eyes.
All I could think,
stood looking at this sick,
lost man was
‘What have I done to you?’

I see a single ticket
pinned on his wall,
joint memory of a journey we took.
I threw away all my reminders
months ago,
yet he clings on.

He avoids my eyes
like a shamed schoolboy,
caught in a moment of weakness,
and I leave the room.

What happened to this thing called love?

Preparing for the weekend,
I wash the cement patio,
and clean out the drain,
brushing away with spiky bristles,
the mulch from last year.

You sent me a letter today.
‘Sorry, can’t make it. You know how busy it is here.’
How could I forget?
Isn’t it strange,
how close we used to be,
and how you faded away?
The first thing I’ve heard from you in months.
I wonder, if we meet again,
will the invisible thread between old lovers
still suggest itself?

But I doubt it.
Sweeping the dusty floor of the tin shed,
I make the whole garden sparkle.
Standing alone in the cool shade
I think about your first letter in months
and I can’t stop my angry tears.

Desert.

The beach today will whistle
like an open desert with the wind.
Children’s toes and cheeks and noses will grow red,
and their ears will ache from its roar,
while my head lies on your sleeping chest,
that rises and falls with a slow,
Sunday morning laziness.

The sheet is gritty from yesterday’s sand,
when we sat on the flat, open plain
and you rested your head on my shoulder,
grazing my cheek with yours.
We silently built sandcastles
then laughed at our efforts.

Sitting together,
watching the rippled sea glitter
like an excited thing
in the weak heat of the spring sun,
I looked across the blinding beach,
at the endless horizon,
and remembered scraps of the past.
Lost kisses underneath willow trees,
hands that were clasped tight, receding,
the people who had disappeared
until they were memories
and letters once a year,
which in turn slowly faded.
I felt the future with fear.

But you kissed my head
and all the past disappeared.
My heart leapt for the summer.

Before the World Begins.

Clenched hands dive deep inside sleeves,
and sleep clogged eyes try to shut.
Blinding darkness, intermittent traffic,
muffled yawns and chattering teeth.

In the car, we huddle together,
silent, all wishing it was the end of the day.
The air conditioning is too hot
and I begin to fall back into a dream,
moving, like everyone else,
with the sway of the wheels.
But out of the window,
the light changes
and falls on my face,
opening my eyes.

A yellow glow spreads across the land.
Flat and dewy fields begin to sparkle,
as birds rush upwards in their swarms,
dipping and diving and awake.
Suddenly, the sky is frozen
in the aftermath of an explosion,
a shooting fire
that makes the tips of the clouds blush.

While everyone else has fallen back asleep,
and the driver focuses on the road,
I wait for every change the landscape has to offer,
and watch this new, naked burst of life.

Church Bells in the City.

Church bells ring in the city centre.
Their hollow clang
makes pint drinkers in the pub opposite
look up, bleary eyes turned to heaven.

People brush past us,
with small children clinging onto them,
and I think of where we have been,
and how we looked at him, helpless,
witnesses to all of the sadness in the world
contained in a pained, uncomplaining limp,
and patchy hair making him bald,
out of place on someone so young.

Families walk in through the thick,
wooden doors of the church,
and I avert my eyes.
At least it gives people hope.

Yet, in that warm Sunday morning hold,
my head on your chest,
peacefulness settling around us -
isn’t there something in that?
I grasp your hand tighter
and we head for home.

Longer post: Threads.

It was the end of summer. The leaves on trees were beginning to crisp on their branches and slowly, silently, tumbled to the ground, and early risers and housewives hanging out washing saw their breath suspended white before them. At the top of a road in a Victorian building, a little girl with brown skin and black hair stood out amongst the other children as they lined up on a tarmac playground with bright shapes painted onto the floor.
'What's your name?' a small girl enquired. She didn't answer; she couldn't understand. Her bottom lip trembled at the unfamiliar sounds of a foreign language and the strange, cool air that made her teeth chatter. The teacher saw, but she said nothing. She had a whole class of new pupils to deal with, all crying and scared, and was preoccupied, replaying a moment in her mind from the weekend that had just passed. She had visited home, and ran up to her mother to embrace her in a familiar town, filled with a familiar feeling, and yet…For the first time, awkwardness lay between them. They had become strangers. They walked without linking arms, an action of friendship that they usually undertook, and talked about their separate lives. As she struggled to lead the last of the children into a line, a rusty car revved its engine outside the school gates, filling the air with the stink of petrol. A young woman got out and slammed the door shut, tears in her eyes. She stood on the pavement, waving goodbye to the boy in the car. He looked back at her with mournful eyes as the car carried him away from her for another long period of time. In a flat overlooking the street, an old man watched, and began to write. ‘Single white male WLTM single white female, 50+, must love the outdoors. For companionship and friendship and…’. He put down his pen as he saw that week’s lonely hearts column out of the corner of his eye. He picked up the paper, skimming the ads, and began to smile at the people selling themselves to strangers. His sense of how big and empty his flat was began to disappear, filling up with lonely hearts like himself. He walked over to the window and looked downward at the young woman in the street. She thought back to her gripping embrace with the boy from whom she had just parted. She felt their hands clasped, remembered the things they had done as a couple, as a unit. Once again she knew her place in the world, her uniqueness came flooding back, and she walked on, making eye contact with everyone she could. In the school, the teacher was herding children into the class when she received a phone call. She stopped shepherding and picked it up to answer.
‘Mum, I’m at work! I told you I’d ring you later!’ she said in an irritated tone. Yet as she heard her mother’s voice talking back to her she felt satisfied. Normality was somehow re-established and she hung up smiling. In the teacher’s brightly coloured classroom the little girl with the foreign eyes trembled in her seat in the corner, unsure and confused. She looked up as a boy, a late arrival, entered the classroom, crying and clinging onto his father as he tried to retreat. As he tried to peel the boy off his leg with gentle words, the boy began to scream with fear of leaving him. Silently, the little girl got up and walked over. She offered her hand to the boy and he stopped screaming, interested in her offer but still weepy and shyly curling into his father. After a few words of encouragement from his father, the boy took her hand, and she led him back to her table. She gestured to him and they began to laugh together as the father quickly made his escape. Out of the school gates streamed the parents who had made the break, gently smiling to one another and heading to their quiet houses as the bell rang to start the school day.

Longer post: Relics.

At the museum, the billowing steamers in a painting are brushed into being. Their tall masts look like spindles, and the yellowy sea water reflects the fog and mist settling around the ships. In another, a road winds through a town and up into rolling hills. A barrel-like caravan, decorated with lace and bells, travels upon it in late evening light. The heavy horses that pull it hang their heads wearily, as if they have been to the end of the world and back. It looks as if it has jumped off the pages of a folk story and onto the road. Nearby, a man sits in a separate gilded frame from his wife. The light shines on his oily forehead and red leather chair, and he looks ready to laugh at you. His wife is decorated with white roses, pink ribbon, stiff lace. Her eyes are downcast but a smile plays on her lips. Her gold wedding ring shines in the light and she carries a brooch bearing her husband’s image at her neck. They both have secrets.

I see him enter the room. Out of the corner of my eye his gangly frame moves nearer and I can hear his footsteps, loud and slow, above all of the other noise. Can I get out of the room before he sees me? Slowly edge away, through the door and around the corner. Slowly, slowly…

A shepherd moves into my line of vision, guiding his sheep towards the horizon as birds fly in the sky. They flutter and dip without movement. Two men look up, bathed in misty moonlight, no hint of their conversation. Clear as a photograph, incredible.

Oh no…he’s seen me. Look at something else, act like you haven’t seen him. Maybe he won’t bother, perhaps he’ll turn around and walk out and realise it’s a bad idea. He’s stopped to look at a painting. His face looks strange. Maybe it’s the light but he looks older, more tired.

The lovers twist into each others arms, shining in black marble, so blissfully unaware, set in stone as they are captured in a final moment of happiness. Their legs and arms are mixed up, part of the same, part of the whole.

He’s walking over. Quick, move along. His footsteps are coming up behind me like a lumbering giant. I may as well stop, he’ll catch up with me eventually. I don’t want him to think that I was running away.

Limestone. Two people emerge out of it in an unfinished kiss, trapped, suspended. Painted eyes stare from all four corners of the room. People long dead hang on the walls of the museum.

‘Alright?’ What am I going to say? I come up with -
‘Hello. Haven’t seen you in…well…you know, seems a long time… anyway, these paintings are amazing!’
‘Yeah they’re alright. Seen the boats?’
‘Yeah, yeah they’re all really good.’
Silence. I don’t know where to look.
‘Listen, Sarah, can we go get a coffee and some cake?’ Great. Just great.
‘Sure. That’d be…nice.’ Idiot. Why do this?

We wander down the cold staircase, past the victorious Persius holding Medusa’s head aloft, and from a side room volcanoes explode and dinosaurs roar. We are taken back in time.

‘How are you anyway Chris?’
‘Yeah, I’m O.K thanks. You? How’s the new house? As “wonderful” as you’d imagined?’
‘C’mon, no need to be like that. But I mean really…how are you?’ What on earth am I starting this conversation for? I could have avoided this subject, could have gone round and round in circles until we both got bored but no, I bloody well had to remind him. Idiot.

‘I’ve been better. How do you think I am?!’
‘Sorry.’
We walk through the hall with the big domed, glass roof, which washes everything lilac through the stained glass, sit in the café, and order coffee and cake.

‘So what are you up to at the moment?’ What else am I meant to say? Steer clear of anything that might make him upset, just keep talking about jobs and work. That should be safe ground.
‘Well, did I tell you I might be going abroad for a while? New job. Paris.’
‘No way, that’s great! When d’you start? Oh you’ve got some cake -’ I reach over and brush his cheek where the crumbs have settled. He looks me square in the face. Shit.
‘So, Paris?’
‘Oh…Hopefully next month.’
‘That’s good. Probably be nice to get away for a while!’
‘Yeah, well…you know.’
We finish our coffee and cake and walk back up the grand marble staircase and underneath the lilac dome, entering a carpeted room. We go through the heavy and wooden doors in front of us, and into the room with the paintings. It is just us. Oh Chris, I’m so sorry. He goes to one end, I go to another, admiring the pictures. My footsteps echo across the wooden floor and I cast a double shadow in the strange lighting. I wander over from my paintings of people and life to his of ships and industry. We stand, just looking. My arm brushes his for a second and I jump back.
Silence.
‘I just…I can’t...’ He looks at me. His childlike face is ready to cave in and his voice stumbles over his words, strained and hurt. Reach out, help him, don't just stand there watching him cry. He shakes his head and walks out, leaving me with the paintings and sculptures and electricity in the air. His smell lingers in the room. I try to wander around.

In an oil painting, a storm is whipped up in greenish yellow light and I want to be there, blown about by the wind, rain in my face, releasing my guilt. There is no easy way, never will be. A naked woman covers herself up, head buried in her arm, blocking out the world, carved out of a pearly white stone. I wish I could have made this easier for him, but instead I will always be sorry. I will always know that I left him, with those thoughts, and that much uncertainty, alone. As I walk out of the museum, the light from the lilac dome illuminates the coffee shop and I see him, sitting alone. I should go over and comfort him, try to make it better. But that will only remind him… I look at him one last time, an image that will always be ingrained in my memory, and walk outside, the fresh air bursting onto my face like a cold foamy wave. I carry on with my life, while he struggles to build a new one for himself. On my trip to the museum, I have added to its collection. I leave behind a relic of my past, broken and solitary, in the museum café.

Snowfall.

The snowman in the back garden
was small, irregularly formed.
My hands got cold when we made it
so you gave me your gloves.
I accidentally knocked the head off
but we built it up again from scratch.
Gently and slowly, you forgave me
and now its face is beautiful.

Love Hearts.

I wanted to send you a message,
so I trawled through pages of Shakespeare,
but the rose and darling buds of may
grew over me.
I looked at some Keats,
but the bright star became blotted out,
and the nightingale
flew over me.
Then I bought a packet of love hearts,
and gave you ‘Be Mine’, and ‘I Love You’.
I kissed you on the cheek
and you smiled at me.
We walked hand in hand,
away from the library.

Red Bricked Building.

We ten walked through the gate,
Smart in our skirts,
Sauntering across the courtyard.
The red bricked building doors swung open,
And we looked around,
And the silence fell.

The boys stared, hateful eyes,
Angry, crowded in packs,
Blocking the doors.
They leered, they shouted,
They came up to our faces,
And made us jump.

But we still stood there.

That evening in the wooden floored hall,
The school awards were given out,
To Tom, to Dick, to Harry.
Then my teacher stood up to make a speech,
And the audience of white haired,
Crumbling old men started to clap.

Clap. Clap. Clap.
“BOOO!” they roared,
“Get HER out!” they cried.
The headmaster stood up,
In defence of his colleague,
Suppressing a smirk.

But she still stood there.

The News: A Child's Perspective.

I sat in my pyjamas with the pink pigs on them,
eating Coco Pops, drinking the milk.
My dad came in from playing a round of golf,
and exclaimed ‘You’ll never guess what’s happened!’

I was trying hard to balance my spoon on my nose,
but he interrupted me, and made it fall.
He said quietly ‘Princess Diana’s died,’
and my mum looked surprised.

I was examining my gold paper crown ,
and it had a rip in it, right down the side.
There was silence until the T.V came on,
and my mum asked ‘What happened?’

I answered ‘My crown is ripped’,
and wandered into the dining room,
wondering what France was like.

White Out.

Heavy laden sky falls down,
invisible world.
I roll out of bed,
feeling the freezing air surround me.
Tips of fir trees bear their drooping weight.
I open the front door.
The whirling snow ceases,
slippery against cement.
Our garden is gone,
as the precious flowers hide away.
It seems that everyone is still asleep
and the school is silent.
Softer and lighter
the snow begins again.
With a cold neck and wet feet,
I retreat back inside.
The blankness of the day lingers.

Only Now.

My street is alive with sun,
it reflects off the pavement,
blinding white.
The daffs shine bright yellow,
the bells chime a reminder far away.
Hour strokes are insignificant but the sound
rolls clearly, purely, through.
A sudden silence,
Deafening, cloaking, sweet.
Birds cry and fly,
And it all melts away,
Everything behind and in front,
only now.
Only Now.

The Visit.

The dusty carpet tickles my feet
as I sit and wait,
wait,
wait,
for the door to go.

I wonder if he wants to see me or if -

The sun lowers past the garden shed
overgrown with ivy.
It is late.

In my mind I shall trace the wrinkles that will have grown around his bright eyes.

Summer glow stretches out the garden,
the trees, the fields beyond.
It seems so far away.

I wonder if he thinks of years ago and the day I didn’t stop crying.

The T.V is losing its colour and crackles,
I open a window to let in the air.
I need freshness, newness.

I will remember the moment I open the door so I can play it over and over.

Time ticks on,
and the singing birds slowly quieten
down, into the dusk.

Birnbeck.

Iron struts once green and strong,
a turnstile that used to click-clack constantly,
and the wooden boards pointing towards the island
are all succumbing to the sea.
The organ that played into the night for dances,
bits of twirled iron railings protecting sea gazers,
the flags and banners and posters
are all stored in the leaky ticket booth.

At low tide I crossed the beach,
avoided the fallen pieces of pier,
scrambled beyond the warning signs
and fell into the past.
Tattered curtains hung from the main room,
flapping in broken windows.
Painted letters proclaiming ICE CREAM were peeling,
and the stairs up to the balcony
showed chips of their old colour.
My camera clicked and clicked and clicked,
looking for a lasting image.

I walked back across the beach
and wondered how long it would be
until my photographs
were all that was left
of fading Birnbeck Pier.

A Change of Scenery.

On the sidewalk the lap of waves strokes the rocks below.
Pools of life gather in the sunshine; some die, some thrive.
Further along the beach a parent plays, and an escape overtakes him.
The winter sun reflects off the water,
blinding the windows of the big hotels behind me.
I stand with the wind whispering in my ears,
and the call of the gull makes music with the waves, the wind, the people.
My lips are salty and my nose is red, dripping,
and my hand rests on the rusting blue railings
where the smell of dirty seaweed lingers.
The beach fills me up.
The steps down to the sand are gritty but when I reach the flats
all I can hear is the echo of the sea.
There is a boat in the distance coming into the harbour,
waiting for the tide.
The fairground sounds from the next promenade float and swarm on the everlasting wind.
I sit on a rock warmed with the sun, and I lap with the waves.

Gone.

The iris of past things
Salts the cheeks
Wide eyes frozen with disbelief.
But you - how could your fluttering fingers -
How could your tired eyes hold my gaze and just -
I cried.
So open, so raw, so new.

Fragment.

Pond broken glass
reflect unfamiliar face
bird whistle trees
touching soul deep
iris purple black
soft dead petals
green juiced stalk
grass frosted hard pack
pink tongue touch sky
people buried earth
crumble, Die.
Time passed by
Time passed by.

A Song for Survivors.

They still feel the chill of winter,
shrugging sunshine off their shoulders,
and rippling through this -
they know, the beginning of the end.
All tired, hearts heavy,
they look to the sky sprayed blue,
from within their sodden trenches.
Tears curdle, time flows through them.
They wait for the promises to fade,
and for their beautiful ghosts to dissolve.
Still their mournful hope holds,
and perhaps the dappled sunshine will find them all
together again,
binding them on an eternal wheel of summer.

The Housewife.

Down the stairs, the dark dank corridor,
in the steam piled kitchen,
she stands, she aches - life has lost her.
Dusty on the shelf time's hands spiral out of her control,
while hers bear a binding chain,
she claws for something new.
Her eyes roll around in her head,
looking for a light,
while her thoughts irritate and itch claustrophobically.
A rash in her mind forms,
as she thinks of her blood,
the girl she pushed and screamed out.
Her life lies ahead,
time is her friend.
Below the woman toils away,
and all she can think about,
is a life wasted.

The Human Condition.

You have the human condition.
Incurable, I'm sorry to say -
Only questions, no answers.
Your heart is flushed with reasons, riddled with uncertainty, insecurity.
It is sick with desire, and wants to belong to someone else.
But the human condition doesn't give answers,
it raises questions -
you'll find
that you’re always asking for more.

Tired.

Bus crowded hot afternoon - just thinking.
Blindly saw an old street; rusted sign. I wondered -
it's all lost in the end.
Past a cafe, murky and drowning -
insignificant moment.
Past shops, library, faces, church -
stepped off and worked my way home -
watched the bus round another corner.
All the passenger’s faces left me.

World's Pace.

Sat, Still, Silent
Sirens running past shatter my ears and
People are racing to keep up with life.
Lights blare out a cheap message
While music shines, whines, around me.
The moon is shrouded
In an orange glow and
It's all fast, fast - too fast.

Revive.

Snaking yellow ribbon ripples,
the beach is exposed under
pale hot grainy feet.
Sticky lips and red skin
blend into hoards of rosy people
lying in the sun, soaking in heat.
Tired old fairground sounds
engage my ears and my nose catches
smells of donuts greasy and sweet.
Deserted boats rest on sea-sodden mud
with salt-sprayed windows
observing an old town, deadbeat.
But you and I,
we give the place
a loving revival.

Morning Light.

The window is open today and
Your ocean eyes wash upon me with
Open arms. I breathe for their
Fluttering lashes - the
Breaths are new. Once
Our hands have touched yours
Line up with mine;
Laughter playing down the corridor but
I can't feel it for reality
Leaves us.
Just us.
Sleep muggy breath softly touches my lips,
And your heart pumps beneath my rested head.

Self Indulgence.

Season's breath brushes cheeks red.
Deeply, clean cool air - Godsend, something send.
Eyes closed,
life's beating heart pumps breathlessly.
I am waiting.
Always waiting.
Cool fingertips stroke my lungs,
looking out across the playground of humanity,
I break free from this.
Sky clears after rain, light springing from beyond eternity.
Autumn passes,
and the world's greatest triumph
breathes a sigh of relief.
Blue crashes the white, slipping into winter.
Cloudy edges lit up by a new light.
It grows dark,
nobody anywhere, just myself,
breathing as silence descends.

Floor Bed.

Lift the veil and there’s humanity’s heart,
Struggling on the surface, suffocated,
Drifting on a wave of compulsions.
Wanting to be led by having no strength,
The force of such a being too mild.
This culture, this race,
Encage me with silver bars of convention -
I couldn’t bear,
But when I lay on your floor watching the afternoon sun
Slant with precise perfection…
Everything was undone as it should be.
Your bearing eyes and freedom of our touch
Soft, natural as the falling dusty daylight.

For Our Fear.

The hounds of time gallop across the plains,
Peeling back the veil of mountains,
Stripping the Earth to it's bare nakedness.
Dusty whorls of hourglass sand
Whistle back through the ages
And the evolution starts again, and the angels dissolve into the ground.
No Western or Eastern minds,
No humans to think it.
The clouds tumble and move at a fast pace,
Green shoots speed into breathing trees.
From tiny seeds life blooms, and
Adam's knuckles scrape the ground;
Eve trails after.
The human heart is born -
Their tears water the parched earth of the jungle,
Makes it fertile.
Generations bear children, die, are reborn,
Skins of their life hang off them -
Distant memories of experience out of reach.
We watched all this, you and I,
And our fear went.
Earth caught up and the cars began to rumble,
Our house was built, dogs born, beds made,
Our little life recreated.
We were up to date, and now,
We fall into each other, fear gone.
Aware of the future, and how the human heart was there -
The galloping dogs ran toward love.

Black and White.

The old black and white spouts it's idyllic soul,
While petals from my fading flowers crisp on the dusty floor.
The world thunders on, oblivious,
As voices of generations whisper unnoticed amongst the fading light.
Eyes of the dead stare and pull me into their dark pools
Of condemning wishes.
From amongst the hot cities and steam laden kitchens,
One cool white sheet kisses my skin,
Tender, caring, soft.
My world turns inside out as the flowers bloom again

You.

And oh, how you make the world work.
All the everything is alive,
electric fizzing;
air is thick,
my voice struggles up.
Half-smile curls stomach,
shallow breathing,
secret mind held shots
will remain.
Wonderful, fleeting you.
Heart thumper, fingertip touch shocks.
Everything is new.