Half-Formed

The internet is littered
with the remains of our half started
dreams and schemes,
a web of tangled ideas
conceived but never fully realised
abandoned, but a footprint
remains, a winding trail,
pieces of who we are
only half formed.

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Misty Rememberings [prompt]

Early morning mist covers the lawns
as the sun comes up – blue skies
a bright day is promised.
The earth is scorched – it has been
warm, too warm and the grass
is brittle and crisp, brown now.
signs of the past
have been revealed
the earth peeling back, revealing
what is past
a garden once there,
foundations of a building that once
stood – long gone.
the heat reveals it all
strips back to the past
to what has been buried and forgotten –
it now lies on the surface
ready to be discovered.

II
It was a formal garden once
laid out and cared for by a team of gardeners
now it is just grass, the secrets
of the past have been long covered up
there is nothing to show –
but the past remains
to haunt them, long after it’s gone.

an old walkway long covered by water
stripped back to walk across again
a village buried and forgotten
now emerging from the water.
lost foundations and runways
echoes of buildings once there.

Salt Musings [prompt]

he stands by the water
early morning, alone
it is like glass
not a soul has stirred
these are the quiet moments
the golden ones.
It is already warm, the air
is still, calm
he listens, watches the gentle waves
hit the beach and retreat –
one
two
three
and then another set
it is music to his soul
a balm.
It is all he sees –
he is lost in the repetition, the methodicalness –
he owns it and yet it owns him
controls him
brings him back from the brink.

II
the storm rages.
he is gone now
the lonely figure
the waves beat at the beach
anger, power
beats down
hard
heavy
it doesn’t relent
the oasis is now a trap.

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.

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.

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.