Poetry

We weren’t ready

I know we weren’t;

the clouds were still grey

and the chambers blocked, a dam within

a dam

where words which weren’t our own

leaked out to be the wall we tried to pass off

as our foundations.

When time passed and they

eroded

and we pieced ourselves back

from the rubble.

That’s when we were ready.

So that’s when it happened: not before.

And we have eons without hourglasses

sewn into each touch.

Poetry

Dial tone

I hold one end and you hold the other,

tin cans attached by a string.

No matter how far away we are, our voices

always meet up,

taking turns to bounce off the other.

 

Our eyes may not lock together

from one day to the next,

but our thoughts, our words

will constantly be shared.

Poetry

Shaken, not stirred.

We’re two sides of the same coin,

individually an image, combined a complete person.

We could have gone forever not meeting one another,

blind to what we can see in a room of mirrors.

It took throwing caution up in the air

on a chance comment

to flip our perspectives

and finally see that we’ve always been just a short way apart,

the possibility of our friendship

slapping us in the face until we finally listened.

Poetry

Oracle of Seasons

I woke up

and for once I silenced my fears.

I picked up a nugget of sunlight and put it in my top pocket,

patting it

every time the chill from the tunnel

made goosepimples rise on my skin.

It sent a ripple of heat and light through my body

that became as natural as breath.

 

In the distance, I saw you pick up

a nugget of your own

and hide it in the lengths of your hair.

With every casual stride

it glinted, dazzling my eyes.

I wanted to run out of winter, and join you in summer.

 

I didn’t realise you were running towards me.

We met in spring.

Poetry

The Monologue

Can I touch you?

If I reach out, will I feel

your skin against my fingertips,

the loose strands of your hair

tickling my wrist?

Will your breath ebb out from your lips

in the cold air,

if you speak to me?

Are you real?

Really, truly real?

I’ve seen you so many times,

everyday, in fact,

and you always catch my gaze,

our eyes meeting

through the glass.

If I cut myself,

will you bleed too?

Don’t worry, I won’t.

I’m better now.

But I still need to know.

Tell me…please?

Poetry

Our place

We walk down to the tree shaped like a chair,

years of training to get it just right.

Across the river is the fall

dripping from the woman’s mouth.

This is our spot, this strange location

where magic feels tangible in the air,

and everything is as green and lush

as in our dreams.

You tease and say it is a dream.

Oh, I know that.

I’ve known it for a long time, since you left.

But I still walk here with you.

Poetry

Underground on tip-toe

What do you make of time?

Catching teeth at the edge –

a half-chewed sandwich

being forced down

as feet are charged

to skip across the tops

of moulded caves.

Down into the caverns

full of tubes that threaten

to shave the skin

from your nose.

And for what?

Worn out shoes and holes

covered in stripy threads,

and a headache at one

in the afternoon.