Poetry

Tired, was he

He went boldly up to the clocks and abacuses

marking out his life

and demanded to know why

they refused to see how burnt out he was.

 

They paused, studying him, and said,

‘We can see. But you didn’t state it before this.

Therefore, it was not our concern.’

 

And so they went back

to laying out his schedule

as if no interruption had occurred.

 

‘Hold up. Are you saying

you’ve seen me struggling for months

to cope with everything

you’ve arranged that I haven’t asked for

because I kept my mouth shut?’

 

‘Yes.’

 

In response to their answer, he pulled

them all down from the dais

and dissembled them

with his bare hands.

 

‘From now on, I mark out

my own life,’ he said,

and left them in a heap

of beads, cogs and springs.

Poetry

Oracle of Seasons

I woke up

and for once I silenced my fears.

I picked up a nugget of sunlight and put it in my top pocket,

patting it

every time the chill from the tunnel

made goosepimples rise on my skin.

It sent a ripple of heat and light through my body

that became as natural as breath.

 

In the distance, I saw you pick up

a nugget of your own

and hide it in the lengths of your hair.

With every casual stride

it glinted, dazzling my eyes.

I wanted to run out of winter, and join you in summer.

 

I didn’t realise you were running towards me.

We met in spring.