Poetry

A prolonged tea break

I’m sitting on top of a ladder, balanced on the rung

gazing down at the world.

Stars are beaded into my hair

and moon dust glitters on my cheeks.

My clothes are patched with space junk

and I’ve tired myself out signing to the satellite

that I don’t want to come down.

They’ve asked me to move, to go back

to earth and mingle with the life once more.

I don’t want to risk my health – there’s a plague

of humans itching to infect me.

To ask me, to corrupt me.

Even Hades has no time for that.

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Poetry

Water Nymph

Sometimes I think I’m water.

Well, technically a substantial portion of me is,

but I’m talking about,

you know,

free flowing water.

The kind that freezes when it’s cold,

or pools in shallow dips when it rains,

hangs around in the air

to fluff up

that girl’s neatly straightened hair.

Except it isn’t my form that changes.

It’s my mood,

my entire attitude

to life.

I’m not complaining, just

observing really.

Once I thought it’d be good to be fire.

Then the wind caught my candle

and blew it out.

Poetry

Homecoming

The field is green. So green that it blinds me,

taking over my senses with its scent.

Grass, wildflowers, heather. Pine

off in the distance. And you.

All earth and petals, brambles and silky leaves.

You run your fingers through the long fluffy tails

reaching up to your hips, a smile lingering

at the corners of your mouth.

Welcome home, you say,

and I am welcomed by a cloud of

meadow browns and common blues.

Poetry

Upturned paint tins

Shelter; storms gather as we escape

down the grassy staircase, vines

threaten to catch our ankles.

The ground splits open on the final

step. We’re swallowed down –

or perhaps suspended – in the giant

stomach of crumbled earth.

The MC appears behind us.

‘Describe how you get your ideas.’

Poetry

In the museum.

Haze. Frost across the future

in an eggcup full of water

in a statue’s cupped hands

in a child’s shoe.

Tinted.

Refracting red.

Wheat fields rise:

golden, new.

A heady scent bottled and archived –

a summer in the West.

Before the fall.

Poetry

What lingers

There is comfort to the closeness. Strong scents jarring the nose but relaxing muscles in a way only home can. The earth is close. The weight above, to the sides and below. Inhale. Exhale. A constant movement against motionless time. Soft grumbling from deeper in, memories of warmth. There is nostalgia here, mixed with the damp soil.