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

Small Waves

You used to look

out over the harbour and tell me

about the boats waiting there.

You used to say

that they weren’t just vessels

for ferrying a person back and forth,

but vessels for transporting the lives of all the sailors

ever to have sailed,

worn into the salty residue on their hulls.

A lullaby to the ocean and its cast

of characters waiting forever for the last show

of the tour.

Poetry

Sense

I take a day and pop it, pill-like, into my mouth.

At first, it’s sour. Scrunched-face sour.

Then the coating dissolves in the rain.

My tongues finds sugar in the flower petals,

bright flags ready to be folded with the first frosts.

Catching, strong coffee finds me. I don’t

like the taste of coffee. I don’t drink it.

I absorb the bold, smokey bean smell

and take energy just from that. Cut grass,

dew-wet, on walking  boots. Spikes

that fall to people, instead of people

falling to spikes. Tea to wash it down.

Poetry

In the museum.

Haze. Frost across the future

in an eggcup full of water

in a statue’s cupped hands

in a child’s shoe.

Tinted.

Refracting red.

Wheat fields rise:

golden, new.

A heady scent bottled and archived –

a summer in the West.

Before the fall.