Sleep

Sleep

This morning you slept late.

Heard the alarm,

But chose to ignore

Despite the ringing melody encouraging you to wake.

For once I heard nothing.

Lost in dreams of a past

Where those I once knew are reduced to fragments;

Pieces that alone sing a quality

Yet together, didn’t quite fit.

Imprint

 Imprint

The makeover was simple.

Nothing more required

than a disguise

of paint,

just like

a snake

shedding skin.

The ceilings shine black

and the walls,

they blink white

and I thought,

maybe,

that was the mistake.

Two, three, even

ten coats will

never hide the

mouths kissed,

bodies writhed,

nights lived in

a haze of drunken youth.

The imprints mark deeper

than cushion covers,

table tops, varnish;

they cut like

fallen stone.

Old young love

Old, Young, Love

She sang her heart out;

The rest wondered

How it would be

To have all eyes on them.

Like a fireplace

Her voice burned,

Through heat spat

Words that felt

Only too well the meaning.

There was no need

To sing of love,

It was already clear-

Transparent eyes,

Wanting fingers that

Graced the strings like

They were a child.

Perhaps she wanted

Others to hear, to know

What is was to be 

Young, and to

Hurt, for she knew

At some point

Everyone had been

There, even her

Grandmother who

Sat at the back-

The age of her skin

Creased with pride.

Mans Best Friend

Man’s Best Friend?

The dog’s nose touched the little boy’s.

Then, before his mother could stop him, a long,

Pink tongue reached out, licked the little boy right on the lips.

He giggled, stuck his own tongue back at that brown furry face,

At eyes softer than soil, kinder than a chapel, and

They saw each other – animal and man, dog and boy,

Friend and friend, until the child’s mother yelped,

Grabbed his hand away as though he’d just

Thrust it down a toilet.

‘Dirty creature,’ she spat.

The dog didn’t know it had done wrong;

It wagged its tail, relaxed its mouth in that soppy way

That you’d swear, swear was a smile.

Drive On

Drive On

If only

I knew beforehand.

More and more control

Is lost, despite

The promise of change. 

The usual route was blocked.

Light did its best

To stretch itself further,

To brighten the street signs,

To ward off the dark. 

The car

Felt like a toy.

The wind could be seen

In the arch of the trees,

The craze of the branches. 

Fields of misted heather

Lined the view

In the distance,

Like the blur of a glass lens

Splattered with rain. 

And then came

The villages,

Like forgotten belongings,

The regret

Of not glimpsing sooner. 

Far beneath

The quarries loomed-

Gaping holes; little houses

Were lit, and called,

And called. 

All I could do was drive on.

Dust

Dust

The rooms are larger now.
Funny that; unlike the lake at the park which
Was never as big as I once imagined
These walls, this house, only deepens with memory.
My eyes are dusty
As I search for the things that I hope will never change.
The chipped dining table, the mark on the window sill,
The attic piled up with nostalgia
For each is a reminder-
The first time I walked, spoke, argued, smoked,
The single bed where I aged each night.
Would I go back?
Repair the mirror that got smashed in temper,
The countdown of Christmas staged in chocolates
Then stolen by my brothers; the tears that followed
Felt like the worst that would ever flow.
Was childhood ever the learning curve that it should have been?
In so many ways, I’m no different now
To who I was then
Except,
The empty space at my side is no longer that.

I thought of you

I Thought of You

I thought of you last night.
Tall, gracious, kind.
Saw those days of childhood when your home was a special place,
And the smell of lavender in the bathroom never failed.
The organ in the hallway waiting each time with its large
Brown hood rolled down.
Your fingers were art themselves.
Guiding paintbrushes, needles, notes,
With a touch that could never be taught.
The shell of your weakened body didn’t stop you,
Not really, it told a story that hadn’t reached the end;
There were mornings to be viewed for a while longer,
Alarms to ring at six thirty am in time for breakfast at seven.
Walks to take along the route that recognises you by now,
And expects your steps upon the grass.

It did all stop, of course. It had to.
You’d hardly even know now, the overgrown fields
Where balls once bounced as your dog played twice a day.
I barely knew it myself. But then, as I thought of you,
And drives in your van that had chairs, a table,
Even a bed;
Each place went you went counted as a thread, a tie,
A knot wound far too tightly to ever be undone.