Twenty-six

Water spills from my edges - rose petal skin unfolding like french kisses and sweetness.   I am a tree whittled  to pale, raw bark glimmering in moonlight as she tells me every secret of every star, and ink blooms -   foliage words curling themselves wistfully around every inch of me.   I write … Continue reading Twenty-six

City

The garden is my new city I don't just mean because it is the centre of all things I mean the tower blocks of blossom the bees in the chimney the skyscraper of activity I mean the birds commuting to and fro oak to elder plum to cherry blossom I mean the neon bursts of … Continue reading City

I remember

Do you remember the sound as country met cliff? The incessant utterances of waves as if in a zealous bout of worship. The crumbling in the distance - the singing erosion of salt, sand and rock. Do you remember the sea foam? The bubbles and spit? Softened shards melting beneath, shifting, swaying with the seaweed. … Continue reading I remember

Magnolia

Magnolia walls, all four and counting, breathe with us now, they know us now, so much so our skin begins to match: a canvas on which you compare me to every fruit the supermarket did not have, every flower you haven’t seen, every sunset discoloured by the evening news. Just magnolia is left, off white … Continue reading Magnolia

Bottled

I keep my regrets in bottles. I store them in glass with tiny cork stoppers and shelve them, and keep them for the days when I prefer to admire my mistakes rather than bury them.   I admire them for the stories they’ve written and the houses they’ve built; for the ashes from which they’ve … Continue reading Bottled

Route 62

Route 62, the pink and purple bus fading like a disappearing sunset, which always passes beneath a lamp which flickers - the orange eye wearing a halo of feathers, the seagulls too far from the sea. Homeward bound - bus ticket in hand, paper turned redundant, used and crumpled, left in a pocket to fall … Continue reading Route 62