Choosing to withstand those baleful days
whose menace would cast aspersions
on my love for life

I will disguise the grinding of my teeth
by chomping raw pasta
for breakfast, dinner and tea,
then gaily hang waterbags on the washing line.

If, as I am pegging out,
there is laughter in the snicket,
I will believe it is with me
and belly back wholeheartedly.

In these considered ways
I will stay active,
keep my stomach lined,
confront paranoia,
and, hey ho, the flies will not bother us this spring.


From this stricken bridge, our pickled Lily
is a ragged and a snarling twig
stuck fast between grey stones.
Whilst all around
cross Eddies feud and weave,
she brooks her gall, suspended.
Who knows, should snagged forgiveness
truly rip and run again,
the river, reprieved, may turn to smile,
and Lily’s spoiled white lips
would twist and split: a pretty boat.
Her veil, pulled low to save that petalled face,
could raise into a hopeful sail
and pistilled spirit bend and dip
to fast row Lily, blemished but aglow,
to steep her days without bondage and regret
in turbulent regatta.