Moth

Attic ulating, up the words I climb
in slippered undulating rhyme and
stop, unlock the heavy door, a key
to sticky notes before, and there
in chests the best are laid, the odd
and old and folded, saved, unsaid
they fester in the gloom, their spell
a chrysalis too soon. Ah what to take
and plunder? Through asundered parts
I blunder, scattering pasts in tissue
screams, all tip and topple, broken
dreams in dust and dappled light are
held again, and one, it might not
be a pretty thing, will be a moth
and from my midnight pen take wing.

Aunty

Today in your honour I boiled an egg
a simple act to cut through time
eating comfort with a small spoon.

It brought back the red glow of your hearth
re-instated the sound of knitting needles
and made true again the knowledge that here was
a safe place for as long as I chose to stay.

Life Jacket

Rising naked on a surfing swell
I felt my wave crash by
and saw the crest I might have reached
before it fell away.

Amongst dripping retrospectives
in a box of salt and dread
was an old patched jacket blessed with holes
half stitched with tenuous thread.

Pulling on this life too small
rough hewn haste tear and mend
those familiar seams and ancient dreams
will float me to my end.