We kissed long after we should have stopped, soft shared breath tasting of lips and tongues, the memory of last night’s weed on the edge of smelling, hard heart waking…

Three old men sit,
backs to the road,
outlined in gold lamplight.

A girl walks confidently alone
along the dark road,
straight-backed, hair swinging.

Three young boys sit, faces lit…

Today, I am grateful
for russet leaves nestled in mud,
softening the cold grey
of daily morning runs,
conjuring memories and mockeries
of leaves rusty with red dust,
outstretched in heat
in the place I left you.

Today, I am grateful
for thick deep green holly,
unpruned by secateurs,
full of blood-red berries and red-breasted robins;
for visions of weeds left to grow
by roadsides and schools,
unsliced by cutlasses,
full of kissing cricket legs.

Today, I am grateful for sleek bicycles spinning past, reversing rainfall back into the air, bringing me images of children racing bikes far too big…

This Is Us

Her anger filled all space,
expanding like thick grey smoke,
rainclouds building,
brimming with thunder,
a silent stagnant mass growing,
crackling across waves,
lit up by sudden flashes
ringing loud across the sky,
rumbling then exploding as it must.

Her anger skulked like a black cat,
fur set on end by ghosts,
unseen enemies,
fluffed by fear, hatred, fury,
always ready to spring;
like a porcupine, round-backed,
hiding soft belly flesh,
quills quivering against the world,
pricking itself from the effort.

Her anger filled the house like a small scared child, hunchbacked, curled into the smallest corner, seething to itself…

I could always tell his mood
by the state of the garden.
I knew all was well
when it teemed with
peaches, apples, strawberries,
long grass filled with damson flies,
bees fat and furry buzzing happily
around lavender bushes,
hums matching the strokes
of his spade and secateurs.

I knew storm clouds had come - he had retreated into his dark bat cave inside, where we could not go - when weeds started overtaking flowerbeds, not wild and brash, but spindly thin grey, squirrels got the plums, a rotten tree had to be cut down leaving only a stump, and…

We were green when we met -
her hair and nails grassy,
blending with carpeted river bank,
mouth and hips wide open
like a singing bullfrog -
me, naive, not knowing how
with someone who could also be
a sister from another mother.

We connected in water like tadpoles,
swimming further than usual
in blue green lake water,
lying belly down in soft silt,
let our knees, breasts, forearms
cradle healing mud
spoke of words, people, plants, animals,
how to make this world better.

We drank sweet rainwater straight from the midnight sky, when the heavens finally broke, electricity crackling…

This Is Us

All the lost things we ever had
are somewhere still,
present, existing,
even if we can’t see them;
a comforting thought,
like believing in God,
or that people never really die.

All the lost things we ever had
are somewhere still,
under beds, between train seats,
in gardens, beneath paving stones,
in cushion stuffing,
gutters, washed out to sea,
growing into coral and tree roots.

All the lost things we ever had are kept carefully by the ocean like a mother in an empty nest, waiting for our return — flip flops, bottles, clothes pegs, juice cartons, buttons, glue —…

This Is Us

They always die too young,
looking half their age,
hope smoothing worry lines,
trust lifting wrinkles into a smile,
the glint of their regal chins,
the energy of their stillness,
the unfairness of it all,
transforming us into
superheroes, leaders, artists, writers;
fire and fear and fearlessness
running up and over our edges
like lava vomited from volcanos
deep with sorrow and power.

They created countless kings, when they stood brave and tall, showed their faces to us all, held unwavering arms high, spoke words more eternal than their lives could be, vibrating like tuning forks held in thin glass…