Poetry

Commute

They line up at the cliff edge, eyes on the storm clouds ahead,

nervously opening the umbrellas they’ve just been handed by the young assistant

about to direct them.

He asks a few questions, answers of which are stolen away by the wind

as it crawls through their mouths and hair.

Then he takes out a combined watch, compass and barometer, counts down

and gives a short pip of his silver whistle.

As one, the first group steps off the cliff

and catches the draft down to the city below,

floating serenely as their suitcases dangle by their knees,

carrying everything they need for arrival.

Another pip sounds behind them, and

briefly they wonder

how many the assistant has to guide today.

 

Poetry

Occurrence

It’s midnight again and the clock is striking. It’s chiming, ding, ring, outside my door.

 

It’s midnight again and the colours are brightening. They’re painting, stroke, line, on the walls.

 

It’s midnight again and the shadows are evolving. They’re dancing, hop, leap, at the foot of my bed.

 

It’s midnight again and the ghosts are appearing. They’re singing, fa, la, by the window.

 

It’s midnight again and the whispers are growing. They’re chattering, snicker, bicker, by my head.

 

It’s past midnight now, and the house is quiet. Not a sound, breath, sniff, to be heard.

Poetry

35 whispering skulls

The pillars have shattered.

White-hot fire leaps up my skin

surging through every vein, every capillary, every cell.

Cold mist coils around me,

shapeless shadows guilt-trip my actions

as I rush past the sea of dried lavender filled pockets.

I hear my name called.

Sing-songing down the corridor,

trying to distract me from reaching

the thin silver column presenting itself as a door.

I ignore it, and step through

taking the elevator straight up.

Up and up and up.

Poetry

Ushering footsteps

The darkness rides the waves of sweat

hidden deep under the layers

resting against your neck.

 

The building cold, a stir of breath,

the air tingles with impatience

while anxiety threatens the grievous theft.

 

A cold stone slab presents itself,

a shuffle of feet, tipping the balance

forward as the clock hits twelve.

 

Visions are strong in this line of work,

hands beckon from beneath

where the bodies quietly lurk.

 

Quiet now, quiet, they surely whisper

remember the promise you made

with your dying younger sister.

 

The darkness rides the waves of sweat

hidden deep under the layers

resting against your neck.