The birds singing louder
banks are green
lined with hope
dots of yellow
skies are blue
smell of damp
sunlight glistens in the puddle
mud thick underfoot
waking up after a long slumber
before emerges from the grips
of the mud
as the sunbreaks
and the rain clears
another day.



Take me to the water
let me hear the waves crashing
feel the salt on my hair and skin
the sand scrunching beneath my toes.

Take me to the water
let me dive in, glide underneath
the chlorine clings to my skin
long after I’m home.

Take me to the water
let me soak it in
and rest my weary bones
as it heals me once again.


Sharing this short story I wrote a while ago, in honor of Woolf’s birthday today (January 25).

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Autumn Morning in London

The sky is pale baby blue.
Everything still seems to be sleeping
as the sun dances on the yellow
and orange and green leaves.
A lonely train rumbles by out of sight
and a plane ducks down, flying low,
ready to land, somewhere nearby.
You are asleep somewhere under the same sky
while I sit here, nursing a coffee
and gazing out at the familiar and yet
alien landscape that is not mine
and another world away from you
and me, another someone I could
have been.


The Things You Miss

it’s funny the things that you start to miss –
a familiar bed, the books stacked up on the floor
a desk of one’s own
and a coffee pot in the morning.
An empty house and the wide open countryside
winter walks, dripping wet,
wellies caked in mud,
huddling by the AGA
and cooking, baking
to my heart’s content.
Last minute meals and easy cooking,
singing and dancing in the kitchen,
making something just because,
wandering around in dressing gowns
and drinking hot chocolate before bed.
the peace and quiet that comes with ‘home’,
but what is home, after all,
but those familiar things –
the things you start to miss
and crave to have around you again?


The Itch

feeling an itch, a longing to be there again
to be down by the sea
standing on those cliffs
and feeling the sea breeze on my face
yes I’m by the sea here
but it’s not quite the same
it’s not my place of dreams
my place of magic and wonder
I need to be there again
to digest, to breathe
to just be
I need to go home.


I Wish

I wish I could explain
just how much I miss you
how I’m longing to hear your voice
again for a little while
to have the comfort of it
a little longer
I wish I could voice
the words I want to say
that I miss you
and it overwhelms me at the most unexpected times
when I’m not asking for it at all
when I feel that these feelings are past.


The Sound of Something Dying


and then I’m back in that room again
listening to the muffled sound
of footsteps
the ticking of machines
the stuffy air
the world outside so far away
and the knowledge
that somewhere
close by
is dying.



I pine for summer
but now I’m craving
the familiarity of autumn books
that seem to shine orange and red
and brown and smell like warm drinks
and plenty of layers;
stories that glow warmth
and make me feel at one again.


The Photograph

in the photograph, you look
just like her, it’s like looking
in a mirror, the only thing
separating us is time
and the fact that I never knew you
and you’re in black and white
frozen forever in posterity
hands clasped, eyes gazing
at something just off camera
and I can only see
what’s reflected in your eyes,
while I live
in a colour world
that you don’t know.