Rebirth

Daffodil buds struggle to poke
their heads through the snow
that’s beginning to melt under the sun’s gaze.

Overnight, a blizzard blows
come morning, the land is lying
under a white winter blanket.

Spring seems a distant memory
the trees still stand stretched bare
banks sleeping under the snow
but still hope holds on.
Spring is coming – we will
start again.

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Untitled Poem

Evenings are lengthening
I watch with joy
as daylight stretches out
pushing the darkness back
so that it no longer feels
like a threat, like the weight
of it is caving in on us.
now, the darkness is like putty
in our hands, we can mould,
fit it so that we are not lost
and when it does come,
we know that it won’t last for long.

 

WAKING

Waking, to sunlight streaming
birds singing on the telephone wire
the smell of spring, something warming up, evolving
filters in through the open window
and although I huddle down, cold,
it reminds me of what’s to come –
the joy of spring and summer
the leap out of bed in the morning
with the warm promise of the day ahead.

Spring is in the air, early as it is
daffodils are forming on the banks
yellow buds appearing like promises
bluebell shoots push their way through
the wood floor, through rotting leaves, green shoots
scattered under the bare, blank trees
that form a waiting canvas
their arms outstretched, like skeletons.

Sunlight in through the window
warms my back, my face
the first real warmth of the season –
reminds me that this is what it feels like.

But in the shadows, the cold
still lingers, reminds us that
we’re racing ahead and time,
time is only trying to trick us.

 

THE WATER

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.

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.