Poetry

Droplets

They roll down your cheeks,

Little universes

Each containing a fragment of your

Astonishment and pure joy.

A child whose eyes have been

Opened to the beauties of the natural world;

Meadows full of wild flowers,

Rock pools and puddles,

Waves rushing forward

Like herds of galloping white horses.

But you are no child,

And the wonder overwhelming you is

Love,

In its truest form,

And the knowledge that she

Is filled with it too,

Her body not big enough to contain it.

So out it comes

As tears

to match yours.

Poetry

Black Cobwebs

You’re hurting.

I can see it as plain

as if you were holding up a sign to the world

letting them know

that being trodden on

and lied to – however well-intentioned – is not okay.

Except everyone, regardless of vision,

is blind to it.

It takes until the tears roll down

for them to understand

you can’t

keep trudging away everyday,

that care-free positive smile –

weighing several tonnes –

hiding your real thoughts.

Pretending, pretending, pretending

everything is fine.

No rest. No sleep. No insights.

It’s wounding you.

Slathering you in red;

not blood.

Anger. Pain. Sorrow.

And love.

Because you love,

because you claimed a degree of happiness

that gives the illusion you have distanced

yourself from the circle

and don’t want to be distracted,

there’s guilt.

Needless guilt.

Your choice was never to be left in the dark.

But I have shared the same

and understand why it’s there.

I hate it.

I hate how it wraps you in dark threads and cocoons you.

The only thing I can do

is hold your hand, drink your words

and let you lean on me.

It’s nowhere near enough.

Poetry

Story time. Discuss

The queen saw, pointing at,

while tears dripped

freely from her eyes.

 

They led her over

to him, helped her kneel

beside. As an afterthought,

 

piled leaves over his lower

half in an attempt

to preserve his modesty.

 

‘It’s over. It’s finally over.’

‘No. It’s just beginning.’

Poetry

A rainy afternoon

It begins as a light tapping

on glass,

a rhythmic patter

of ghostly fingers

that leave only tear streaks down the pane.

Wellies left outside the door

in a rush

soon begin to fill

and seeds cast on bird tables glisten

like small nuggets of gold.

The smell of the earth rises,

bringing forth a crowd of slugs and snails

who rummage through fallen leaves.

A tiny river courses along the path,

wetting moss and stone,

finally pooling in the dip that always stays

just a little bit damp.

Poetry

The Dragon Tree

On a rock

far out in the ocean, sits

a tree.

Its trunk is

sturdy, like the

very rock itself.

And for good reason.

Instead of lush, flowing leaves adorning delicate branches that drift

to and fro

in the wind,

there are dragons.

Small, scaled balls of energy

with wings.

Their span is but a foot,

but the underside of those mighty beaters

shimmers like a plate of

mother-of-pearl.

Gripping the branches with

wrinkled, long-clawed toes,

the dragons feast on

tangy sap, ready to

take to the evening sky

for their task of catching the smokey, iridescent tears

of the moon

to fertilize the tree’s hungry roots.