Poetry

From bones it grows

The night is fading and you can taste morning in the air.

The vague shapes swallowed by the darkness

awaken again as the flowers begin to open.

Not skulking monsters as they sounded, shrieking,

without the light,

but the bones of buildings covered in green carpets,

rich and plush and full of a life that was once

cut back hard, considered a weed,

a pest, a threat to those who hoped to dwell.

Time’s mark is clearer than footprints

and has no patience

for those who refuse to see it.

It grasps them all with tight fingers,

pushing them aside so the first ones

to arrive at the waterhole can have their fill

and flourish

as they should have for all these years.

 

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Poetry, Uncategorized

Thorn Mirror

Pricking my finger on the first thorn

of a young rose, I suck the bead of blood away

only to find that it’s already left a map on my hand,

pooling in my palm to create

a still mirror

reflecting someone I don’t recognise.

I shake my wrist, flecking the ground with red.

Seedlings sprout from the seeds,

readying their first thorns.

Poetry

Reclaimed

It’s amazing the places flora can grow.

An old boot cast onto the riverbank,

now home to grass and daisies.

A rusted bike, complete with basket,

that holds a sign for a local cafe

obscured by ivy fingers.

A school bus long since rolled onto its side

by people with nothing better to do

has become a greenhouse for wildflowers, mushrooms

and lichen.

And abandoned buildings, whole cities even,

thought to be left only for ghosts and radiation,

have instead become forests.

Concrete, toxic jungles

now just

jungles.

 

Poetry

Friend

The modulation of your voice soothes the words into my mind,

gentle nudges that become understanding; a pause to let me ponder

before you begin again. No judgement, no masks, no need to block up

who I am just to stroll under the blossoms and shadows.

Comfortable in my movements when I’m beside you, my language

is easy for you to read. I might not say much, but you know I am far from silent

and pick up the waves I’m unconsciously drifting on.

Poetry

Witch hat?

Out of the ground it springs,

plump, spongy flesh with a wide brim

and pointed tip.

Or should I take the one over yonder, floating on the night black road

beaming silver and tangerine?

Perhaps the shining brass one, left behind by the marching band

complete with player’s spittle.

The daffodil’s trumpet, or the acorn’s cup,

the nightcap of the old magician.

No, no, no!

None of these are suitable for my hat.

Poetry

Faces in places

Faces glance down on us when we’re not looking.

Knotted mouths with noses in the air, hands

above their heads, pointing, staring,

laughing at how small we are

compared to their lengthy limbs

that could scoop us up if they could move at all.

The ivy beards cover their mouths,

fungi hiding their tears of mirth.