Late Autumn’s Night
I’ve tried many times to mix the deep blue,
Almost black, of the night
After it’s lain over the day for an hour.
Its colour plays tricks; you look to the horizon
And it’s blue, then you tip your head back
And it’s black, splattered with the beginnings of constellations.
The streetlights blur the edges
Adding a synthetic warmth to your sight,
Despite the chill in the air
That’s settling on the uneven tarmac of the carpark.
It’s empty.
An open space that fades into the grasp of night
The hospital buildings try not to cower
Or be swallowed
By its pressing presence.
The houses lining the edge crouch in formation,
Looking down from their raised bank,
Defended by the lamps standing sentry.
And they wait for the outcome of dawn,
Staying silent as the wind plays with the trees
And dances the fallen leaves into frenzied flurries.
The moon watches, entertained by their game,
And glows on the frost that creeps and captures
Any thing hiding still from the bitter breath
Of Late Autumn’s night.
Urbanisation
This land has been divided many times
And it’s scars still remain.
Like upon the occupants who wander and wound
The damage is left in colours plain.
Clay and chalk streak white and cream
While granite and slate display red and grey,
Seas of green are disturbed
As trees part for torrential motorways.
The Dryad’s Voice
Roots breathing
With the wind,
Raising a limb with each movement
Until the forest floor ripples in the corner of your eye.
Trees shifting
Across the ground
In the breeze, not enough to be noticed
But enough to spin you back around, Face the way you came.
The moss is springy
Underfoot. Careful.
But the land below feels softer still,
Flexing as you plant your tread.
Are the knots
In the trees
Doorways or eyes, either way something is watching, yes,
Peering from the shadows between the twists in the bark.
The forest is alive. Now leave.
I Need To Tell You That
(Based on the prompt “I need to tell you that”)
I need to tell you that
The sunrise isn’t as vivid as it used to be
Grey swirled with nectarine and coral
Slowly helps the day drift away
And I sit here
Waiting.
The wind gets stronger
But I can’t feel the cold
My blood has already frozen
In my bones. My joints ache
After carrying me up here
But I bear with it and wait.
I need to tell you that
Although I’m waiting
And want the Next to come soon,
I still find the sunset pretty –
It’s a quiet beauty, respectful,
As it knows I wait to join you.
Grief
It is still,
Silent.
The sea shifts gently,
Back-and-forth, rocking.
The repeated motion
Cradles the numbness
As I live through the moments,
Holding onto the grey.
But the water doesn’t stay silent forever.
The wind builds and builds until
The sea is shaking with the effort
Of staying in waves.
It lashes out at the cliffs
Rocks crumbling, caving
Chalk crashing into the gaping maw
And drifting – pulled – to the bed.
It is caught
Captured
And I feel the same
As the world rages around me.
But I am raging too.
The wind is my voice
And the waves my anger
Because how can it be?
How can it be that
One day a person is there
And the next they’re not?
That they exist, and you believe they’re surviving
And then you are told they’d had too much.
The clouds hang above my head
And they threaten to weigh me down.
They drag on my shoulders
Until I’m crying on the sand.
The wind slows.
My voice gives out.
The memories settle in.
The waves calm down.
The tears still fall –
The world feels different
As it echoes with the empty place
Of the person it lost. Though I’m back in the grey,
Surrounded above and below,
Hints of blue shade the swells
Flickering to-and-fro.
As The Stars Fly
Freed in the drift of space,
Never knowing touch,
Never seeing a face.
Golden rays catch my eye,
But disappear when
I turn to the side.
Each light is a sweet note
Sailing forever
As harmonies float.
The depth of open sight
Causes bass tremors
To dance down my spine.
And in this endless place,
I find rest and breath
As I join the pace
Final Thoughts
We were lying on an old shipping container,
Hand in hand,
Talking about nothing at all.
We were looking at the stars above,
Gazes fixed,
Watching for that rare comet.
The world around had been destroyed
Nature covered by infrastructure,
Infrastructures by rust.
Tarnished corpses scattered across the landscape.
The water ran red. Hidden under earth,
Life was grown in glass wombs.
We looked to the stars
And hoped for the heavens,
To one day escape there.
Count the galaxies as they passed,
Dance in the nebulas,
See the colours that are condensed into light.
Instead, it came to meet us,
As the rare comet became a storm.
Our words now meant everything.
The world was set on fire
And we could only see each other
Among the raining flames.
A Beautiful Gift
They say that if you go
To the centre of the Earth
You’ll find a room of mirrors
Spinning around.
They’ll show you scenes
From every possible scene
That you could imagine
– Except for the people.
You’d see unfettered forests
Acres and acres stretching for
Ever peaceful and wild,
No plantations or tree houses.
There’d be slides of mountains,
Precious deposits kept as buried
Secrets of where springs are birthed
Left as bubbles floating by.
Creatures we know as myths
Would swim and soar from
Shore to shore not separated
By anything but tectonic rifts.
You’d see visions of the world
From before humans learnt
To explore and exploit
Beautiful gifts.
Time’s Concerto
It used to be a symphony hall
Laughter
Clinking glasses
Drawn out strings tenderly crying
But now it’s lost in time.
The money dried out as the waters rose
And people flooded elsewhere.
Sounds once echoed freely in the domed roof.
They’re now trapped forever,
Each chord striking
For the immortal clock.
As Time crept in,
Bony fingers tearing the tiles,
It planted seeds of grass
And embedded saplings in the seats.
Decay took to the stage
And made room for the shoots to grow,
Until Life took notice and
Lifted her mourning head
The memories of the building
Gave way as vines pulled them down,
Leaving craters in the roof
And pools gathered on the ground.
Flowers hang from the balconies
And their colours call louder than a song.
Moss seats are decorated with droplets,
Payment left from a storm.
It now conducts a quiet concert
The wind
Water dripping
Birds singing gladly as they dive
Eternal, rooted in time.
Dreams of Gold
Music playing by the fire
The sound of feet in time with drums
Sparks of gold igniting songs
In the air, forever young.
Fuchsia bushes with dancing dresses
Hide stories too small to tell.
Pebbles are left, kept secret beneath –
The eternal promise of elves.
Cats click their claws like rocks on the beach
Each pebble playing its part;
Guitar strings mimic the calling song
Of dragons amongst the stars.
Their voices fade into colours we see,
As sunsets burn into the sky
Glowing above the crippled building
Still stately in its height.
Deer roam the estate – captured just once
In the morning mist
And everything pauses in eager silence
As the night begins to lift.
Elevator
Shining
Silver
The echoing ding as the doors slide open.
The metal bar running along the sides, digging into your leaning spine.
The subtle pressure as the elevator ascends.
Rising
Rising
Apprehension.
My eyes rise to the ceiling
And I check the ceiling for a hatch to escape.
Never mind.
But if I could: a whole shaft stretching above me,
The top unseeable in this fiction fantasy.
The concrete walls radiating coldness at your touch
And a slight wind swaying the cables,
The soft creak of the taunt metal warning they’ll feel no remorse if they let you go.
But the possibility.
The dark space.
The freedom.
Away from the eye of others.
Doors in the above distance teasing of possible actions,
Of entering a new world
Or letting something else in.
But there’s peace.
Technically you’re stuck
On a floating island, treacherous and unstable,
But you are almost flying.
Suspended in the middle of this shaft
And if you tap your foot, firmly
Enough to sound a noise,
You can hear the shape of the casket
And feel where the sound goes –
where the vibrations run to concrete and get absorbed into the voices the walls collect.
But below there is another space.
Almost a mirror of this place but with more danger,
And the excitement of knowing how close you could be to falling
if you were born in a reflection world
makes you wonder.
Still My Home
These streets have always felt like home;
Cradling me as the buildings rise,
Forming a warren for me to hide.
Tunnels built out of blocks
Of disrepaired and destroyed and disfigured
Once-were houses,
Businesses,
Schools –
Individual centres of life,
Now long gone,
Herded to somewhere safe.
Safe from the bombings
And the blitzings, and the gunfire.
From the plumes of smoke that start on street corners
And spread into our hearts
Filling us all with fear.
Even after the scars from the shrapnel of these buildings torn down,
The hollowed bones are still my home
And I can trace where our roots used to grow.