Things happened, and
He bore them stoically, as is his way,
He let them shape him, he endured.

Things happened, and
He battled, shattered, but determined,
Born again from grief and pain.

Things happened, and
He built a fort with a towering wall,
Existed inside, with his pain and his pride.

Things happened, and
He let me in, gifted me his trust,
I am more, being his, than I ever was before.

All sound is muted
Vibrant colours overlaid with gauzy grey.
My skin, my hair, are damp,
As if those things were weeping,  but have ceased,
As if I am made of tears
Or, have bathed in them,
Yet, I feel nothing, nothing but numb
No pain, ah – well, a faint, dull ache
As if my etheric body were trying to escape.
I am lost within and without myself
All insular, enclosed
Boxed, redundant, closed away
Grey is the way to the end of today.

I don't want to write about the cold, the wind,
The rain or these January doldrums.
England at this time of year is desperate and depressing,
And I'm longing for warm breezes, nighttime teases
A pregnant, chuckling moon at midnight. August dances,
Wild advances, stolen, secret, hungry glances.
Magic, confusion, summer scents
BBQ, Samsara, Bacardi and Cava,
And the kind of flowers that try to impregnate you with their scent;
Smell me! they plead,  then kiss as I burst, spilling my pollen,
Blessing the union of your hungry, eager mouths.
January is barren but August is ripe, heady, ready,
Moist and pulsing, life is in the air,
Flee the doldrums, take me there.