Rushing

Realisation: I’m not going to make it, even if I fly
Undoing: the benefits of sleep slipping away
Sensation: hot, cross and dangerous
Hold on: this is not going to happen
I‘m not: I won’t do this to myself
No more: no more rushing
Going to: breath a new dimension, going to slow things right on d
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River

My river is morning cups of tea,
comfy shoes and eyes that see,
blankets and warm underwear,
My river is clean hair.

My river is brightly coloured clothes,
to not forget; a car that goes;
has lips to kiss, a place to be,
to not be late, to flow as me.

It is calm and great excitement,
mute and then exuberant.
dinner on, fire lit, the lights down low,
the right pillow.

And now my river rocks me,
is your friend and our security,
My river is creation –
words, work, love, inspiration.

Around

Again, they bend to pick it up – a small flake of white gloss, bright on the ruby carpet, at the foot of the door frame. They haven’t time to wonder at the origin of the flake .
Each morning Alice removes an old-fashioned matchbox from the kitchen drawer, and steadying herself with one hand on the doorknob, uses the rough, striking edge to ever-so-slightly shave the frame.

Framed by familiar doors –
time to circumnavigate.
Hushed valediction.

Bridge

On the way home, out of sheer necessity,
Geoffrey crossed the bridge between
his place of work, and his small parked car.

On Tuesday, it had remained dark,
hence it was gloomy indeed
when he crossed in the usual manner.

The young runners approached at pace,
cantering towards him, on the bridge,
potentially, he assessed, blocking his path.

Unaccustomed to this conundrum,
Geoffrey panicked, and climbed quickly
onto the wall, breaking his routine.