Poetry

Round about

The time we spend breaking things down,

Analysing until there’s nothing left to be found.

What’s it all for? What does it mean?

Simply a way to keep the slate wiped clean?

Or is it an impulse to tear each precious thing away,

To keep telling ourselves there’s no possible way?

I think, no matter the reason given,

We should look to the future for all that is hidden

And embrace the changes as they appear

Even when your limit is near

Because beyond that, a gem will shine:

A warm heart waiting for you this whole time.

Poetry

Tied Up

Every plait

can be separated

out into the individual strands

that make it.

No matter how long they’ve been bonded for.

 

These strands can then go

on to make new bonds

or hang freely

to

catch

the sweetness of the air.

 

Growing stronger than vines,

lush as wild forests.

Why should they tame themselves

for the benefit of others –

small, preserved, squashed –

 

when they can fan out as they please,

dancing on light toes

throughout the day?