Poetry

Chapped lips, worn shoes

Who knew speech could be connected to footsteps?

I didn’t, before I met you.

 

Every step you take

carries its own conversation, its own beat,

its own theme.

 

Observations of ourselves,

down to our mirrors,

the characters we play or the roles we choose.

 

The sun can be high, or switch with the moon.

Dusty rock or marshland, it matters not.

 

The well you speak from never runs dry

as your steps don’t falter.

 

Unless you’re catching forty winks,

that is.

Poetry

Clockwork field

The breeze causes time to pause around your face,

inner cogs jarred in a perpetual smile

of this moment in the long grass,

side by side with you, speaking in tongues

because words no longer matter,

our minds criss-crossed like the latticework on a cherry tart,

promising sweetness but sometimes adding a sharp tang

just to shake things up.