If Earth’s mantle changed
maybe ever so slightly:
We would barely know.
If, minutes before
two thousand and seventeen,
she re-aligns us
so collective colours
drape about aching shoulders
and make us subtly strange,
It may work out that
less becomes our spirit well:
and we can be still.
We are the lost girls,
the stars of tomorrow
in curlers, pyjamas,
with beans in our heads.
Up in the night time,
we laugh at reflections
and fight with green jelly,
We are obnoxious
and anxious and beautiful,
Gazelle like, Giselle like,
a glorious mess.
We head rebellion
to form a close union,
our souls crying out
to be tickled to death.
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.
By this card let us mark together
one more day falling past our shoulders
onto the leaves of fifty three years.
Red, amber and gold is my carpet,
and I only moments ago embarked
on my inaugural flight
in a plane named Warrior.
Twisted familial expectation
beneath fragmented family life:
my own way was a no way; failing and flailing,
confidence bonfired, trodden in, mud sodden,
but there was a will in all that,
and if it led to winter, so be it.
We have found new seasoning, you and I,
because we do not recognise the ground
and continue through the frost to dig,
when those who focus on cats eyes smooth over.
Now another autumn story is all but sealed,
like lips that have spoken their piece.
It is time to take up the pen again,
and mine this earthly experience
until all our years are writ.
How quick the leap of faith –
an extra breath,
hanging free from all restraint
imposed and once accepted.
What madness to undo
the tie of twisted rope,
fishing out spliced ends
which for decades held true.
And edge forwards.
I see a shaman’s face
observing from the moon.
Aye, but these limbs are my own.
Risk, courage or stupidity,
the unfamiliar domain of
some other bird. No more easing out –
Time to leap and trust the air.
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.
The train is leaving, but there is the head of a child
Resolutely wedged in my door of change
A sense of submerging as the old breath runs out
Nasty phobias manifest at times like this
Surrendering, the final click elicits a sick shiver.
I begin again with an awkward moment.
This is how life pans out on my emergence
I walk strangely into a squeaky new room
Only when I am firmly ensconced, do I open my eyes.
Now though, once again, my Mind is in the Gap, MIND THE GAP, MIND THE GAP!
The night fire blazes
casting shadows across the hills
acrid smoke scorching the throats of trees
They hold their ground
wrapping order in roots regrouping
on ancient acclivities and in wiser minds.