Poetry

Pebbles

The stones are cool against my skin as the tide draws away

to leave them raw. Skitter, the drag comes.

It tries to take me with it, but I am planted firm,

my hair rooting into the shore.

I am solid, I am grounded, breathing a concept

I no longer need. The salt in my tears

from eons of watching sunsets and rises

crystalises into my imprint. I’ll remain for eternity,

even if I join the sand.

Poetry

Cover to cover

Hiding in the in-between,

tucked into corners and balancing on ends,

hanging from cliff faces

only to fall

into a change of pace,

your viewpoint shifts

as the plot thickens around your inner self.

You’re running wild, free,

almost off the page –

and then you hit the wall,

the final cover falling back into place,

locking you in once more.

 

Poetry

Hooping

I step inside the circle,

raise it above my head

feeling the muscles of my shoulders and upper

arms. I can turn

clockwise

or anticlockwise,

connect it with my hips,

my back, my legs, my chest.

My heart. And

my mind.

It stops a moment after I stop,

lingering for just that fraction longer

as if posing the question ‘Shall I

go on?’

Poetry

versicolor

I can bleed all the colours.

You can open me up and read my text,

flick through to any page you like.

Find the golden ration in the spiral

of my ears, watch as they angle

to listen to the world breathe.

I can melt the ice with my sweat,

or freeze it again with my touch.

Watch rubies grow in the chambers of my heart

and see the sand heated into glass

replacing my valves.

Poetry

Step to it

Beneath our feet in the coils of carpet

full of dander, paper fibres and pollen,

past the underlay thick as a pinky finger,

the floorboards warped to become musical notes

when stepped on, down

into the foundations

is a pulse. A beat.

A rhythmic tap of a dancer’s shoes,

the drum of fingers on a worktop,

a family getting into a car and shutting the doors

one after another.

When the house is empty,

the beat stops.

A light in the unoccupied spare bedroom switches on.

Click.

Poetry

Dust and dreams

Staying alive as a whole person

when we are all made

of glowing particles of expression

straining

to break free

is quite a wonder, really.

 

All these dreams, all these thoughts

of bounding off into the depths of

 

of what?

 

The image in my head

is a great plain of grasses, rivers,

books, wildlife;

everything I love.

But that is not the depths of anything.

It’s only little me.