Commute

They line up at the cliff edge, eyes on the storm clouds ahead,

nervously opening the umbrellas they’ve just been handed by the young assistant

about to direct them.

He asks a few questions, answers of which are stolen away by the wind

as it crawls through their mouths and hair.

Then he takes out a combined watch, compass and barometer, counts down

and gives a short pip of his silver whistle.

As one, the first group steps off the cliff

and catches the draft down to the city below,

floating serenely as their suitcases dangle by their knees,

carrying everything they need for arrival.

Another pip sounds behind them, and

briefly they wonder

how many the assistant has to guide today.

 

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Power cut

In the dark, when lights sputter out

From a sudden cut, the gloom holds council

To every sound, making sure each is heard

No matter its stature.

They sidestep the beads

From the torch and natter,

Freedom, freedom

Our potential is realised!

Unnecessary measurements

If we were to measure each other out as ingredients on silver scales,

the balance would be so perfectly held

it would look like the scales had rusted solid.

Then we’d spend all afternoon discussing why scales

with such precise measurements

are unnecessary for the conversion rates of our brains,

shooting off into zesty tangents

until we finally agree that the setting sun is a sign

we should stroll off and get some sleep.

The fading of memory as time closes in

It runs, feral thing, clawing its way to the corner

where it dives into the carpet and hides there

in the swirls of moth-eaten flowers and turquoise gaps.

The pathway it came down disappeared

and left it abandoned in the ruins, watching the stairs

it once so loved to climb

crumple into wisps of doubt.

What did the house look like before?

Does it still exist? Did it ever?

To the clouds

My wings quiver as they warm,

blood rushing to each muscle.

I step into my pose, coiled, waiting.

Then: leap!

Out they stretch as I skydive down,

ignoring the gasps, the hisses, the boos,

and as my fingertips stroke the weeds,

I catch the updraft and soar.

Photosynthesis

Out they come, silken wings of blue,

green and purple. Sucking in

the light to seep through my skin,

my blood infused with it, prisming

to show my fractals

so I can celebrate each one.

Harbour

The skin on my back is raw,

I feel a niggling at my shoulder blades.

Writhing, a separate entity that I have no control over.

I don’t know how long I can restrain it,

one day it’s going to spike out

as wings.

 

Time bubble

Inside, the surfaces are greyscale,

effigies so plain they cannot distract.

The only glow comes from the tools on my desk,

the ink, the paper, my own hands.

Time is still while I work,

boring deeper into the creative swirl,

light intensifying

until finally the filament goes

and the clock’s ticking rushes in

with all the colour,

vanishing my focused, serene world

while replacing it with the buzz of everyday life

and the knowledge that hours have passed

in my absence.

Cacti Nymph

She’s heard whispers of cousins who were born

from branches, from leaves

from soils full of treasured minerals.

The thought makes her climb down the spines to the molten sand,

dip in her hand

and bring a scoop of those yellow granules to her eyes,

wondering if they are bland

because they already used up their nutrients

forming her cactus mother,

or if there never were any

and she is either miracle or curse.

After the shockwave

My fingertips drip ash,
all that’s left of the fire that burnt through me.
Everything is returning to its natural colour;
I am the only grey in the room.