Moon song

It’s tough work, drawing enough of yourself

up from the well

that has grown brambles and roses all over

to prevent anyone snatching it away.

No longer can an echo bring up droplets from its depths

to sprinkle as greetings

when greeting is the last thing you want to do.

Even the sun offering its hand

can sway you only so much,

but the moon is the one who whispers to you

urging the water inside

to be spilt only when necessary

and fully charged by its silver.

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Your mouth parts slightly when you sleep on your back,

eyelids as soft as if they’re painted on.

You spend so much time animated –

jumping from moment to moment –

that at first it was strange to see you rest.

Then I learnt that this is the only peace you get.

Ladies, please!

‘Ladies, please

the patient needs her rest,

stop bothering her with these trivial things!’

 

‘It’s not our fault, madame, she’s doing it herself.

She won’t sit still

no matter how many tasks she completes

 

I’ve never seen anyone procrastinate from resting!’

The maid bustled over to the weary girl perfectly

content in organising her affairs.

 

‘Now madame says you must retire to your bed

so please consider, for my sake,

to lay down your head

or at the very least

 

settle down with a cup of tea

and observe the birds flitting about the trees.’

 

The girl raised her head,

considering her brain’s suggestion,

and ignored it once again.

Kip

When I see your face,

jaw slack and eyes closed,

beyond the beat of this moment

in a dimension all of your own,

I relax in the knowledge that

despite the chaos of eggshell mornings

and clay evenings,

you’re finally getting some rest.

Fastened

It’s never too much for you to hear my thoughts.

Never too much to meet me in the gaps of the day,

even though you are pulled around on puppet strings

and often made to dance through the night;

kept away from the family loop no matter how hard you try

to seek a way back in.

I, in turn, will always listen to even the darkest parts of your mind,

caring not what hour it is, even if the witches are out.

What matters to me is you know

I’m not going anywhere,

my feet are sewn to the same path as yours

by my own hand,

a stitch that can never be cut.

They call

And now those cosy sheets

Patchworks of flannel and cotton

Flutter open to let you in

They say lie down and ease

Those shoulders of yours

Take refuge from the world

Do what needs doing. Go

To sleep