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!

Muffled

The dark is an enhancer, a honer

Of senses as the ears try to take over from eyes,

Spanning, assessing rushing car lights in the distance,

The rustling of carrier bags against the wall of an old brick shed.

Laughter and the tinkling of bottles as the local lad gang

Stumble home from the pub.

The quickening of your own pulse as you edge away.

The dark is a muffler, a cloak against reason

Even on the quietest of nights.

Beacon

I took that day and framed it,

up on my wall

as a light to look at

when the darkness tries to eat me up.

I use it as a dream catcher,

replacing nightmares

with wonderful memories

and future promises.

Let down your hair

The tower I am trapped in

is hidden in the darkest of recesses.

There are no ropes for me to let down,

no long locks of hair for me to weave.

If I jump, I will plummet.

 

I have been shorn, stripped of all that I am.

 

The world has gone silent.

The world has gone dark.

 

But then a pulse

beats through the stone walls.

Vibrant as morning light sparkling on the sea’s spray.

 

I hear it.

Accompanied by a scent I cannot describe,

but akin to that

of spring to a flower.

 

The darkness smothering me

begins to recede.

My hair is given permission to grow again,

and so I let it.

 

Finally, I am able

to make my escape.

Berry Scrumping

We gather them nightly,

lip-smacking juices running down my chin.

You look like a vampire

you say, equally so.

We laugh as the moon cackles down at us

and goose pimples rise

up over our exposed skin.

 

On our way home,

hands weaved together, close,

more support than affection,

you slip your mask back over your face

hiding the pinkish stains from the world.

Hiding our sweet indulgence

even from  yourself.

 

 

The death of stars

the twilight of the night, voiceless, yet screaming. can you appreciate her delicate embrace; a mother snarling at injustice, retching up her pain as tears streak her face.

The River Guards

A gathering of columns,

decorated with bright, orange blooms

that cascade their scent

on the decayed air,

stand bold against the grey river.

To them,

Satan is just a song

that drifts down on the wind,

but for those who sail,

unwillingly,

beyond the columns’ reach,

the song is more

a delighted warning of what awaits,

hellishly reminiscent

of the jaw-jarring scraping

of human fingernails on a blackboard,

drawn so fiercely across

that the nails are ripped away

from the cuticles.

The song instills anxiety into every

body.

What kind of creature

could possibly make such

a sound?