Poetry

Home

Home is where we stand

facing the beams that hold us up.

We measure ourselves against walls and doors,

imprinting our personality

into dented paintwork and over-trafficked carpets.

We can inhabit alone,

or we can inhabit together.

Parents, siblings, friends, lovers

may move in or out,

furniture may dance together or shuffle apart,

but the foundations will always remain.

Poetry

The Waiting Room

A kettle boils somewhere in the house.

Cold. Distant. An echo.

A woman in a black veilĀ falls

into the wash of the waterfall.

Whispers in the front room,

a herd of puppets

knocking in to each other:

frequent looks to the wooden case on display.

 

Tink, tink!

 

The herd’s attention is drawn,

as the kettle shrieks,

to a single speaker whose vague body

just about distinguishes itself

from the bled-out decor.

Dry words. Pale words. Words said with a wry grin and frail voice.

Lost.

All at once, the herd vanishes.

 

The kettle gets poured.