The Mist

The mist lies heavy over the river

only the horn of a ship

slicing through the water can be heard

as it moves stealthily through

like a burglar in the night.

 

the mist lifts and the tide rises

life continues, the boats

go up and down, the mist

has floated away over to the mainland

out of sight, and we forget

it was ever there.

Morning [Creative]

 

Waking up to smell summer in the air,

dry heat rising from the earth

the birds sing

the river is at low tide

sunlight sparkles in the shallows.

People are dead, night-time terror

screams ring through the air

chaos reigns, everything plays out in slow motion

while summer pokes her head

through the door, sees death

and destruction strewing the way

and bows away for another day.

BAD LUCK COMES IN THREES

They say that bad luck comes in threes

and there were three of you

when I got home. Three rooks waiting

in the house, your mess an omen

like we were living in a du Maurier story.  

The first of you, I found, splayed out on the floor

wings stretched out, black eyes glassy – staring

you were light to lift, easy to remove

and I thought my job done.

 

The second was still breathing, sitting perched

in the window, staring out at the great beyond.

you didn’t move or flap as I approached

and when you were gone,

I thought that we were done.

 

The last was harder to find. Just a wing

poking out from under a shelf

hidden in the shadows and I don’t know

how you got stuck down behind the case

your body wedged awkwardly

so that we might not have seen you at all.

Even after you’d gone

I sensed you still, lingering, watching, your eyes

fixed on me, following as I went on living.

 

Seaweed (Sea Stories)

it moves through the water like a monster

a dark mass under the surface

seen from the shore, an ominous sight

it weaves through the water

clinging to a rock, swaying

as the tide moves it in

and out, away from the shore

until it disappears from sight.

 

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Find out more about Sea Stories here.

I See You

Spring is round the corner

There’s an itch in my fingertips

The smell in the air.

I anticipate.

I wait.

I long for it.

But the wind and rain rage

At my window, rattle

The glass and it feels like

It’s slipping away again out of sight.

The primroses, the daffodils

Are still in sight

And I hold on.

Return

I stand in the entrance

to the Tate Modern;

my heart is beating like a drum

and I cannot move.

But the world did not end

nor did the heavens open

as I had thought. You are still

not here and I am still alone

alone as I was five minutes

earlier when I entered the building.

The world keeps on turning

just as I keep on breathing

and you keep on not being here

any more.

I Was Here

 

To be the first to walk across the golden

sand in the morning, to leave a footprint

pressed into the sand like a memo

I was here

as the sun beams down

and the quiet, golden silence

of the morning is a secret held

by me alone, imprinted on my mind,

my shoes dangling at my side

sand clinging to my wet feet,

and I wish, that I was there again.

The Game

It is not a race we choose to join

nor do we sign our name

it’s a pre-allocated selection

a lottery we play.

It’s a game we are destined

to be a part of from the moment go –

but for what point?

Who made the rules

and who’s the game master?

Where does the puppet master sit,

watching it all play out, the hopes and dreams

and fears and stress

of everyone, playing the game.