Poetry

Overhead

No birds circle anymore, only griffins, whose

wingbeats hurricane  through the grass

as they claim the right to own the free air.

They fish for green thieves seeking to steal their glinting aluminium treasures.

The twelves hours of day

crumble like biscuits underfoot,

each minute fractured by the bloodied sand

where they leave them to die.

 

 

Poetry

Skin deep

I have seen

your self-inflicted shackles, each bead endowed with the power

to restrict a part of your personality

so that the true you can never break free.

Worn for so long that they’ve merged with your skin

and faded so only those with a trained eye

can see them for what they are.

 

I couldn’t see them,

but over time you allowed me to notice.

Over time, you let slip what they really are.

And since that moment of understanding,

I’ve wanted nothing more than to ease them off you,

not forcefully –

I don’t want to break the skin and wound you

like those before have,

without thought, without purpose

other than a few laughs

that I know still cut through you

even though they are nothing,

and you are everything.

 

I want you to emerge fully

to stand by my side,

to always be here to hold on

to the light, to never feel the need

to bury yourself once more.

Poetry

Winter’s call

The cloak flaps about in the wind.¬†Wings of an untamed beast expressing their disconcert – tied to the long neck of a statue, for all it’s worth. Crisp, frozen grass blades crunch at the first steps of the morn. Another day. Another cloak of wings that can’t get away.

Poetry

The Teapot Trial

Lined up on the kitchen worktop

are three teapots.

One red.

One blue.

One yellow.

 

In the red

a flame licks the inside,

burning without wick or fuel.

I hold my hand over the spout

where the heat

warms

my purpling fingers.

 

I move to the blue.

Inside that,

a grey cloud swirls around,

pouring rain from the spout.

I gather it up,

wetting my peeling lips.

 

I look to the yellow.

I know what’s inside without touching.

A single seed, freshly sprouted,

waits for me.

I mustn’t touch.

I must touch.

 

If I give in,

I’ll live again.

 

But living

means emotions,

hurts and loves that I can’t control.

 

I’m not ready.

Not yet.