Impulsive as considered from the outside, but this is a simplification. The edge of depression is a three syllable look in the mirror – long and hard. Against her own better judgement, with a lifetime’s layers of experience, it is with a sense of inevitability that she opens the utensil drawer and picks out the scissors.

Heavy heart?
Heavy hair?
Comb up
tie round
hold tight
finger thumb
scissor snip
let go
un tie
tidy up
brush down
don’t look
lighter now
there there.


Two bitten lips are evidence, I fear,
of ancient panic hidden in a well,
the bucket drawn when you are far from here,
and I must hold this precious citadel.

These aching shoulders are to be my guards,
which carry and preserve life in our home,
we set a place, and eat, and speak few words,
and clatter through the silence, quite alone.

The doors are bolted shut but I’m afraid
my love is broken into, undermined,
by Loneliness – a muscled retrograde,
who stalks me yet with purpose undefined.

I’ll close the curtains on declining light
and count his eerie footsteps through the night.

Dish of the Day (with thanks to Mr Fluffy)

An inauspicious start to this impermanent sunny morning:
concocted reality spooned from thin cardboard,
depressed tv chewing and spitting its non-events,
clagging milk onto sour grapes.


No more faffing, jiggering, pottering.
Filled with organic vigour and creative biscuits,
for lunch I will emerge a new dish
available for one day only:
a glorious tasty sandwich
of my scorpion and the moon.

Depression is a Place

There is another Inn

where we sit in cahoots,

but there is a price to pay

and in love it is hard to find the other drinking there.


In the Tavern of Sadness I cannot reach you,

nor span the chasm with smiles or tears,

only offer my soul as a ramshackle bar to lean upon,

my heart a familiar juke box beat you may recognise.


Fire side, Pain embraces too tightly, spirits burn;

we are cast deep into our own murky corners;

misery etches your damp countenance on a beer mat,

then turns her considerable talents to mine.


I am learning tho, in the tap room, to wait a while,

to emulate the wild things that you love.

My darts, tiny lights, are glow worms when your fire emits no flame.

Then, after last orders, I trust the way home you take,

singing quietly in the darkness,

breathing slow and even til you lift your beautiful eyes.