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

Unsaid

You’ve got my back; your firm hands grip my shoulders

as I lean into you and filter the weight of the day

from my limbs to yours. Not all of it,

an even distribution so we can both still stand.

With a smile and a nod, we walk with our arms linked

and our steps synchronised, enjoying the bond

that was always a potential and has now flowered.

Words go unsaid because vocalising our thoughts

isn’t necessary — they’re in the twitch of our fingers,

the skip or slump of our feet

and the spark in both of our eyes.

Poetry

A list of How-To

How to get the balance right.

How to know when a wall is climbable, and when it is not.

How to realise that a person’s skin colour doesn’t change their weight.

How to respect a way of working that might not be your own.

How to describe sights to eyes that never see.

How to interpret expressions to faces that are still.

How to see more than two genders.

How to respect your own company.

How to not feel alone.

How to not wish to be someone else.

How to be you.