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.

Poetry

The Vision

As the weightless wings brush my face,

fluttering against my vision,

I feel the path open up again.

A shallow wave licks my ankles

and fills the rock pools

with miniature lifeforms

that have no idea I’m here.

Like full lips parting

the wave draws back.

My feet follow,

ignoring the jagged rocks

that threaten to pierce the skin.

In the distance,

I see the family beckon to me,

holding out their hands for me to grasp.

But I’m bodiless,

my grip lost

to the horizon.

Once again,

I must turn away.