Poetry

Dandelion Clock

On your fingertips dandelion stops, 12am

and the black hole in your belly grows.

You wonder if it will suck you in eventually.

 

1am, dandelion rises up and drifts to the windowsill

on your anxious breath. Look out, invisible bars.

 

By 2am your handprint is fixed into the glass. Dandelion dances

across your arm and down towards the fireplace.

It can feel the inhale of the chimney.

 

3am goes unnoticed as you cram your body up

the chimney after it, ignoring the flames engulfing your legs.

 

A sneeze confuses dandelion

as it trails back to watch you burn slowly,

4am chiming hollow in your ears.

 

Dandelion nests in your hair at 5am,

attempting to restart your brain

so you can see you have now become the fire.

 

The birds twitter when 6am arrives;

dandelion plays the music notes in the air

and leads you to the bath

where your blistered and charred skin

can be soothed by ice water.

 

7am, and it looks like you haven’t struggled at all.

Poetry

The Nightly Year

Every night is a year in my mind.

A year on the backs of wild horses

gathering at the foam of waves.

A year of snow covered trees, imprints

of ferns wasting on clay soils.

A year of suns smiling the false

smile of happy attendants.

A year of goats treading up

mountains to the starry skies.

A year of auroras merging into

solid colour that we name ‘land’.

Every night, my mind plays

out a year. When I wake

the year disappears like it never…