Monday, 31 July 2017

The Key

I have a light
In my little life,
Someone holds a candle
Someone else a knife.

One shines in darkness
The other in sunlight,
I could have hope
Or end this fight.

Two paths cross here
My state of mind.
Will it be damnation
Or hope that I find.

Someone holds a candle
Someone else a knife
Who holds the key
To my little life.

Thursday, 13 July 2017

Adolescent Memory

Humming to herself
she stood, half dressed
slip and bra already on
one foot upon the bed.
She rolled a stocking between
her nimble thumbs and fingers
not noticing my presence,
her angled reflection
in the bedroom mirror.
I spied the scene,
                 or victim.

She rolled the 15 denier ring
over her ballet pointed toe,
smoothing as she stretched material
and hopes
higher and higher.
Sheer material against still youthful skin
dark band contrasting the pale
translucence of her thigh.
Then suddenly she dropped her leg
smoothed down her slip
and closed the door
with a sigh.

Monday, 12 June 2017

Eating Onions

Eating pickled onions
by the jar
shut behind doors
that only open inwards.

Strange how children become
accustomed to
strangers at home,
whispered intimacies,
an extra button
on mother’s blouse.

Father never brought
work home.
Nights on the tiles
hid his infidelities.

Six and half a dozen
I’m eating onions
they bring tears to my eyes.

Wednesday, 26 April 2017

Millington Pastures (East Yorkshire)

Abandoning our car in the woods
we head off up through the Pastures,
as the low winter sun catches one slope
we pull our fleeced envelope
tight against Natures extremes.

Kestrels, like tethered kites, hover.
Casting their beady eye over
steep, grassy valley sides
where still, cowering prey hide
not daring to break cover.

Shaggy, Highland cattle graze,
as the narrow valley winds its way
between high, banked walls
where echoing calls of crows 
break the shortening day.

Water bursts into life from below,
bubbles its way to the nearest hollow
where sheep come down to drink
and ramblers, like us, pause to think
and reflect before we go.

Tuesday, 4 April 2017

China ballerinas

They are two porcelain figurines,
dancing about each other.  Afraid to touch
in their brittle situation, in case
the brush of a hand
reminds them of the conversation
they’d rather avoid.
Their bed, once a sweet battlefield
is quiet now, trenches dug either side,
neither will yield,
a flag of truce flying in the cold air.
Fragile, easily broken.