Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
...No
No.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 8:25 AM UTC
Your breathing stops.
"Breathe!"
I remind you.
And now you're not here
it's this absence of breath
that reminds me.
And what wouldn't I give
for you to be here
asleep next to me
breathing heavily
or not
in my ear.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 7:32 AM UTC
If you think of this word
you'll think of nothing
I've found
like watching the sky
through the car window
just to help stop feeling sick
if you think of this word
you'll think of nothing
I've found
when things
get just a little bit hot
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 7:29 AM UTC
The stabbing pain at my temples
forces my attention away
from the glaring light
of my computer screen
I let my thoughts wander,
subconsciously tasting
the sweet remains of chocolate
in my mouth.
A loud bang alerts me.
Then another.
I open my window
to listen for more.
Cold air rushes in,
replacing the warm,
thick air of my room.
Another succession of bangs,
accompanied by cries
from the birds that flock past,
silhouetted
against the city's light pollution.
The explosions continue,
and people in their gardens
ask 'What's that?',
gasp 'Oh my God!'
and hurry in.
Then it stops
and all I can hear is my heart
racing.
And for the first time this hour,
I begin to type.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 7:28 AM UTC
She laid her head on the desk
and cried
another ocean between them.
This one hot
and contaminated
with the dregs of yesterday's make-up.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 7:27 AM UTC
'Look everybody, look at his eye!'
I look, at his face,
his contrived, forlorn expression.
Yet the class sees only the bruising.
'We don't hurt each other like this,
do we?' She looks at me.
Fire clambers up my neck,
****** my chin and
gathers, finally,
in the ***** of my cheeks,
where it blazes.
The mouth-shaped bruise
on my arm tingles,
teeth marks still ******
I roll down my sleeve,
too proud
to be considered a grass.
Later, she wants to talk,
but I can't for crying.
And I hate when she tells me,
'Just don't do it again.'
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 7:26 AM UTC
The scent of wild garlic plumps the air
in the narrow, deep valley of the brook.
The oak trees either side
reach across, clasping hands,
trapping the heat and the smell.
A trout ***** up stream,
jumping the shallow current.
Crouching on the pebble beach,
two children watch it land,
plunk,
in the depths further up.
'Fish! That's what we need, fish!'
He blunders up the river,
hands outstretched,
as though to catch the trout in his palms.
Deepening the rock pool,
scuds scurrying out of sight,
the girl notices the thin, black water slug
stretched out on her chalky forearm.
Pincering it off with her fingers,
she doesn't scream until
spotting the ****** mark,
as the leech reaches up
to wrap itself round her finger.
With a flick of her wrist,
it splacks onto a dry, flat rock.
She crushes its body with a pebble,
and the smell of iron mingles with the garlic.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 7:26 AM UTC
Only two weeks ago it was quiet,
apart from the owls at night.
But now the song thrush has started
his merry, desperate tune,
and a murmuration of starlings
daily pervades the sky.
By day, falls of lambs
spring on grassy banks,
their mothers staring back
at the farmer's straining dog.
At a shout from his master,
he hits the floor,
his wagging tail halts,
pricked ears fall,
but his eyes remain fixed
on the now fleeing flock.
Thistles have clambered out of the ground,
buzzards drift high above.
Now a screeching pheasant takes flight,
my spaniel's footsteps are like
a skimmed stone on the brook -
he tries turning it into a runway.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 7:25 AM UTC
After a week of hot sun
we find the garden has been iced
thickly, like Christmas cake.
A blackbird on the bird table
scoops snow in his beak.
A day later,
and the primroses have survived
the snow, the apple tree buds too.
The country's sparrow population
hides in the hedges,
bread in their beaks bearding their faces.
A song thrush lands on the lawn.
Making a stance like Jesus,
a worm tethering him down,
he flutters once into the air
exposing his cartoon trouser feathers
before he pulls the worm free
and breaks it in two with his beak.
Then the hedgerow birds scatter,
and all is still,
but for the sparrow hawk,
disappointed this time,
skittering up and away.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 7:25 AM UTC
We keep our new baby in a box
pierced with holes.
The fresh-musty smell, familiar
to kittens, puppies and poults
wafts out when we lift the lid,
tinged with the sickly scent of fresh-cut grass.
Curled up in the grassy whorl within, he lies.
We pipette drops of milk into his mouth
through a straw, and bury him
on the compost heap a day later.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 7:23 AM UTC