Over

thoughts fly free as I drive
further further
weights taking off
as the miles roll under me
the wheels turning
over over
I cross the water
the ropes that bind me
are cut free
and I return
to me
little
by
little
as
I
fly
again.

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Blow Away

I held tightly onto your hand
afraid that I was so small
I would fly away in the wind
like a lost balloon.

I thought if I ever let go
I might dance away
like the fluttering leaves
that were falling on my head.

But when I did let go,
taller and less likely to
blow away I found
that I didn’t need
to hold on, and I was
able to stand alone.

The Hotel with the Blue Windows

I

When she first came to the hotel, the window frames had been newly painted and the stench of fresh paint hung around, impossible to mask. Everything else was newly painted too. She was the first person to stay in that room, with its new springy bed, pure white bed linen, as yet unmarked with stains, and cheaply framed reproduction prints hanging on the walls.

It wasn’t perfect – the shower leaked, the bed was creaky, and the room was stuffy and airless. But she had stayed in worse places.

II

The paint on the windows is flaking now, peeling away as it faces the elements. She is still there. She never left. The cracks are showing – not only in the paint, but everywhere, for the hotel is worn and run down. There are no other guests these days.

The blue windowed hotel does not admit them anymore.

Edges (Inspired by Patrick Heron @ the Tate)

EDGES I
the colours bleed into the corners
lines pushed against the edges
defying, pushing, contorting –
defying expectations,
a life lived at the edge
always
pushing
pushing
to the max.
The colours bleed –
they are stark, bright –
shapes and lines,
look closely and they mean nothing
but they stretch across the wall.
We live life at the edges
life is lived in the corners
of the eye
the mind
an existence –
II
I am at the edge.
I peer over, into the next
round the corners
there are things not seen,
things that linger
there beyond the edges – the corners
of a life.

The Butterfly

The butterfly’s wings beat gentle
as it settles brown wings
onto the flowers I carry.
It stays as I walk
down the twisting pathway
towards you. It flutters
away before we get there
but through it, I feel you with me.

You are there again on a Cornish hillside
in late January sunshine
unexpected, but beating your brown
wings, sunbathing in the rays
you dance around us, to let us know
that you are there with us
before vanishing into the hedgerow.

I see you again closer to home
on a scorching summer’s day
you fly in to check up on us
lazily circling around
in the heat and I watch
you rise and dive
among the bright flowers
that still thrive
despite the fierce, blazing sun
and the wily hands of time and neglect.

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.