Dancer

When I am a dancer,
I spin like a leaf from a bigger tree,
my arms are reaching branches
and my fingers touch all of the world.
When I am a dancer,
as I arc and rise and stretch and curl,
my mind unravels in ancient places
and my dancing soul is free.

Cooking

From our casserole such flavour,
as it’s dipped and spooned and lifted
by nitronic 60 slivers;
from our casserole, such flavour
as it stirs we’ll taste and savour,
coaxed, encouraged, fed and gifted;
from our casserole such flavour:
to new kitchens we have shifted.

In our stew there is a stirring,
time to season our endeavour,
simmered confidence emerging.
In our stew there is a stirring,
definitions changed by learning.
Add some zest and if we’re clever
in our stew there is a stirring:
time to season our endeavour.

Blown

Those arcing kites move methodically, marvellously controlled
in Greenwich Park, an acrobatic triumph
only to be wondered at. We clap, whooping praise,
then swift as the man who rises on a freaking gust,
thrust our faces the way of the wind and bluster by.

I think life’s perfect kite flyers floss their teeth,
pit themselves against the elements
and sleep in tessellation. When my vessel breaks
I endeavour to mend it, but gluing beauty
using unsuitable adhesive is rarely satisfactory.