Cursed ground

It’s just a patch of grass, as

green as that around it, yet

yellow and black tape cordons it off.

Why? What is so different, so dangerous, so other

about this patch?

Is something buried underneath,

alive still, twitching, itching to reach out,

grab ankles, uproot itself using umbrella mushrooms?

Maybe the other grass blades

simply decided they didn’t like that little patch,

that tiny section, that huddle of earth and sprouted seed.

Perhaps they can see something I can’t,

trapped in the details, their canvas of perfection rattled

because of the few individuals declared

broken who refuse to wilt under their gazes.

Or perhaps those cordoned blades

decided to erect a barrier themselves,

electric anger spiking

at being stepped on one too many times.

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Time bubble

Inside, the surfaces are greyscale,

effigies so plain they cannot distract.

The only glow comes from the tools on my desk,

the ink, the paper, my own hands.

Time is still while I work,

boring deeper into the creative swirl,

light intensifying

until finally the filament goes

and the clock’s ticking rushes in

with all the colour,

vanishing my focused, serene world

while replacing it with the buzz of everyday life

and the knowledge that hours have passed

in my absence.

Afternoon in an empty park

The sun rests on my eyelids as I lie back,

the woven rope of the round swing-seat supporting my neck and spine

as I sway to and fro,

legs kicking out for momentum.

A cradle I’m rocking myself,

an afternoon whose warm hands soothe me without effort

and the breeze whispering its encouragements in my ears.

So this is what it means to relax.

Social Noise

The camera flash flashes away my sight of you,

aided by the hovering, caterwauling middle-agers,

parents of rushing children, despite their own failure

to reel in their mouths, and yet your words still

paint themselves in my mind, sponsored by your unwavering image.

The reason is the pouring of your heart, cogs, springs

and fate line into my lap so I can cradle each one

in reason and warmth, judgement free.

Alas, the world wants to block you from my ears,

so to quiet we must go, where my attention

can blanket you fully.

Destabilise

I sit at the side of the hill, and watch the people below.

The grass knows me so well

it encourages my skin to take root;

I’m set back, unnoticed.

 

I can breathe for myself.

 

The hill vanishes.

My backside hits

the concrete

hard.

 

My reflection shows a put-out woman.

My heart encloses the child,

overwhelmed by the rushing, raging world.

 

It beats.

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.

Pin-cushion

Do they know about the secrets kept sewn into your pockets? You brush shoulders with them everyday, spilling reflections from your shoes. People have always been bad at spotting fake images. You don’t want to close the circle, but the ice is drawing in fast.