Sit With Me

Sit with me by the water’s edge
watch the world floating by
let the waves wash away
all those troubles and worries
talk to me about nothing much
just life and the colour
of the sky and sand
but please, just sit
with me, for a little while.

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Glasshouses

sunlight breaks
through glass
early morning rising
shadows cast
reflected on the ground
shapes patterns
heat rising, earth, warm
in the air smell
travel the world
between four walls
tall ceilings reaching
into the clouds
daydreamer
grow
fly

Skeletons

Perhaps, your skeleton lies
at the bottom of the ocean
and I am just trying to find it,

following a road with no map
plummetting into the darkness
falling into something I can’t fathom

like divers who explore the depths
of the ocean, less familiar
than the surface of the moon.

Ships rest on the seabed,
hulls perfectly preserved
not wanting to be found.

Darkness does not encourage
life to thrive, a vacuum
like the one that you left

behind, the day that you went
somewhere I cannot follow,
as mysterious as the ocean depths.

Yellow

After the snowdrops
have shown themselves
hope contained within
the petals
comes the gorse
with its yellow flowers
lining the hedgerows.

Then the daffodils,
bright yellow, spring
up in clusters by the side
of the road, lanes, woods, banks,
a vibrant burst of colour
welcome after the grey and the cold.

Then the primrose,
nestling under hedges
and bushes, pale yellow
dotting the landscape,
beckoning spring closer.

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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.

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.