Poetry

Bandages

I can fix this

I tell myself every time,

afraid that inaction will guilt me harder,

panicking because I’m sure I can do something – anything –

to help.

But my intentions never turn out how I imagine,

the end is always the end

and I do nothing to delay it.

Sometimes I speed it up.

I can never be sure,

and so as they drift away in my hands

I feel as cold

as if I’d stood still.

Poetry

Invitation

The doorway opens as soon as the leaves are trampled.

Eyes watching from knots and branches,

bulging out their curiosity even as the shadow passes through.

Eagerly they follow it, only for the tree spirit

to blow them out and close the gate,

keeping the secrets within

so no whispers may spread on the wind.

Poetry

Symptoms

The catch in my throat

cannot decide if it’s there because I have hayfever

or because I have to wave you goodbye for now.

Same with the ache in my head

and the water at my eyes.

In one case, I’m not myself for a while.

In the other, I’m only functioning at half capacity.

The remaining half…

well, that followed you.

Poetry

Dream Recount

The light is bright,

but it has a condescending voice sometimes.

It’s also yellow, one of my least favourite colours,

and when it goes on and on at me,

I’m just a little overwhelmed.

Then there’s the crash of shattering glass

as feet shuffle, shuffle nearer.

A petty argument over my shoulder,

and no one’s answering the phone;

as I ring and ring,

I might as well be calling the moon.

I think I’d get a faster response.

Oh, but now here you are, my friend.

You’re taking my hand?

Why? – it’s okay.

It is, isn’t it?

Okay, I mean. With you looking out for me.

You just one-upped the light.

Huh.

Thanks, buddy.

Poetry

Aftermath

An hourglass drains gently,

The sand filling the gaps in her mind.

Flashes  of  trees,  the tang

Of burnt rubber tyres,

The man in the road,

Arms  outstretched  in a forced

Gesture of  greeting.

Death’s thin, precise blade cutting  deep  into

His chest.

 

 

Poetry

Daisy chain

Our link between worlds –

You, standing on a plinth of long grass,

looking across the clouds

to watch them take breath. Wild

flowers root at your feet.

Me, voice on the wind

ready to wake your ears

from the ballad infecting

your past. Fleeting,

barely a strand of thought

connects us, gone the instant it arrives.

Poetry

Ghost image

I’ve been thinking,

time and time again,

about the way your face

imprints on me

like those things

with blunt metal pins

that you press into

and they take

the shape of your hand,

only changing if you choose

to erase it.

I can’t erase you.

You’re here with me

whether you like it

or not,

even though

we may never meet again.

Perhaps it’s just

that I don’t want to forget.

Perhaps it’s something more.

Poetry

The Neat Gurney

A glimmer catches your eye,

you look closer, taking in

the brightness and separating it

from the image beyond.

There you see her eyes sparkling

blue, full of hope

that tugs at your being.

You dare to believe her optimism

is not misguided,

but then the mirror darkens,

clouded by a storm of muttering.

The doctor says this is normal.

Still, deep down,

you can’t help but fear

the worst.