Poetry

A photograph of a bench by a lake

The bench is open to any body

contemplating the cool glass before it.

It sees the day and the night, a breeding

ground for those lost souls who have been guided

falsely by the clouds.

It sits in the one patch of sun breaking through the shadows

playing bait. It knows some

will wish to be swallowed up.

Poetry

Chocolate Box

And the trees take their last breath

before the mountain gets its luminous dusting for another season.

Below, the village smarts itself up

for photos

taken by every confectioner around

to be stamped on tins and boxes, ready to be discarded

without thought once the consumers have gorged themselves into stupor.

Yet when the year turns,

the people make to sweep away their sluggishness

with good deeds.

The trees reappear, breathing deep, refreshed,

and watch.

And listen.

In the distance, they spot small groups coming together

to tidy and repair.

They hope.

Poetry

Picture perfect

A lot of ground can be covered in a moment,

ink staining the cells with vibrant pigment;

imprints of days that will never fade

and smiles that will always bring joy to my heart.

You’ve watched me unfold and wash away

the paint that has sunk deep into my pores.

I’m stepping up into who I am,

not hiding away any longer.

There are parts that are blunt, insensitive and uninvolved.

There are parts that are curious, creative and full of love.

Intrigue, sass, laughter, empathy.

Or a void.

You take it all, see it all,

hold it all

because you’re holding me.

At the same time, I’m holding you,

so no matter how we step across the board,

we’re perfectly balanced,

perfectly in place to checkmate

everything that the future might throw at us.

Together. In time.

A dance we take until

the day we vanish.

Until the day we give our final kiss,

if anything about us

and the love that grips us

can even be final.

 

Poetry

Photographs

Moments caught in time,

there for us whenever we want to look back

and see who we were, what we were,

and how far we’ve come.

But what of those past selves of us caught in the frame,

forever in that moment

as the shutter clicked,

marbled into the scene forever more?

 

What if they can see you looking back at them,

wondering how you got so much older,

or when your eyes went from bright and open

to puffed and dark.

Where did that scar come from,

what does that tattoo mean,

and how long have you been wearing that wedding band?

Would they be impressed by you,

or worried at how much life has stamped on your neck

and left you face down in the mud?

Would they wish that they could trade places

and hold hands with your spouse

and hold debates with your friends

or would they seek to bar the window against you forever?

 

Would they recognise you

or are you a stranger

with their face?

Poetry

Three trees

Arms outstretched, chest up

arched like the curve of a crescent moon,

the train of her long moss gown

sinking deep into the leafy mulch.

 

The light catches between its arms,

a diamond sparking in the rainbow wood.

Long legs fold into a bench,

fit for the white dusting of the sky.

 

He crouches into a ball, the circle

his body makes a seeing stone, a hole

for all to gaze through, penetrating the distance

to the other side. The trees wave back.

Poetry

Here or there

We were, as always, running

down to the spring lake,

splashing in the clear water

and watching the drops

as if they were mirror glass

ready to tell us our fortunes.

You said you saw a figure

in blue

gliding across vast plains

on a hand-held sail

of cloth and wood.

You said you wished

you were that free.

I asked you how you were sure

that the figure was free.

If they were to see you

through a droplet of mirror-glass

splashing around as you do

would they not think

you were free, too?

Even though you claim you aren’t.

You had no answer,

but to turn to another

and try to see something there.