Poetry

Butterfly Nets

I recall the shine of your teeth in the dark

as you smile at me

in a moment of snatched privacy.

Outside, the stars hang high

though the moon has hidden itself under a duvet of clouds.

Whispers of the breeze

rustle off our clothes as we speak of future adventures

when time doesn’t have to be caught

with butterfly nets

and the key in my pocket will be ours,

not mine.

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.