There's a forest
inside her
as thick as
the night
and no-one
to guide her
and no
guiding light
no-one
to remind her
that just
out of sight
is a path
she could make
of her own
so she waits
and she ages
like stone...

On the day
her body burned
she asked the
winds to be
her friends
and they
picked her
up and poured
her through
the fingers of
their hands
like a river
without ending
that won't
be tied or
bound, until
every trace of
dust embraced
the freedom it
had found.

She heard him on the ceiling
slowly sliding off the wall,

sinking, gently spilling empty
promises to break his fall,

she listened for their landing
and they landed everywhere

and she gathered them like corpses
and she burned them, then and there...

There once was a world
that stood on it's head

and wriggled and jiggled
and shook out the dead

and shook off the living
and all of their stuff

'til nothing was left
in it's pockets but fluff,

'til nothing was left
but a world upsidedown

that shakes in the wind
as it's spinning around

like a ragged old lady
with thin and threadbare

clothing she's no
longer willing to share..

On the first hour of my first day
in the front trench I fell;

'Get up,' bawled Sergeant Major,
'and stand eye to eye with hell,

and look ye on the plucky dead
whose chests swell out with pride';

but t'was the rats that swelled them
as they plucked them from inside..

At the end
of the path
to the top
of the hill
through cloud
and the crowds
coming down
from it still
to the
twinkling stars
lit by
neon below
in the dusk
as a rust
coloured moon
says 'hello'
and rests
on his back
reflecting
with me
at the end
of the path
on the world
we both see.

she carries
her stark
naked
beautiful
truth
folded
in finely
spun verse;
but sharp
are the
scars that
push their
way through
her fragile
layers
of words.

The world was at her feet the day
she knelt upon its promised ground

expectant, waiting for the meek's
inheritance to be passed round,

with patience and the dead she waited
wondering as years grew old

if her lifetime had been wasted
on the stories she'd been told.

She flinched at the knock
of the first dirt to drop,

and wished for the voices
above her to stop

entreating Saint Peter
to greet her with keys,

she just wanted peace
and for everyone please

to *******..

She smashes mirrors

and watches them spill

over their edges

and onto the floor

like tiny glass tears

not birds, but still

she smashes mirrors

she's looking for more ....

She smashes windows

and watches them fly

like tiny glass birds

and now and again

she likes to smash mirrors

that capture her eye

to see if she flies

the same...

Heavy with time he
turns the stones of memory
as he pans for gold..

She watches
her image
shatter
and fly
like tiny
glass tears
that fall
from the sky
and fall
with
their falling
accompanied by
the sound
of a satisfied sigh...

your words
give me flight
like a child dreaming,

but childhood
dreams have all
of a lifetime to land,

silence rushes at me
as sharp and
as deep as grief.

She loosens on tiptoe
the latch of her window,

slides upward the sash
and the shine of the moon

pours over the sill,
like it's rushing downhill

like a silver stream,
flooding her room.

Yes I remember
that night
in midwinter,
the one
that we burned
on the hill,
and the moon
and the stars
and the
somersault sparks
and wanting
it all
to stay still,
and yes I remember
the warmth
of the embers
and daring
the future
with hope
at the
very same time
your fingers
touched mine
as softly as if
they were smoke.

I used to think
that solitude would suit me

and on my soul
I wore it like a glove

until the day
your poetry seduced me

and turned it
into loneliness my love...

I could do nothing
else but stop
and step inside
this blessed shop
to breathe again
the heady air
of knowledge that
is stacked in here
on quiet shelves
in dusty lines
of books that would
look nice on mine
but I have spent
my money so
I'll just choose one
and quietly go.

Shhhhh!

Falling leaves hurry to gather
at one worn headstone after another
like a funeral party uncertain where
lies the lost loved one it grieves;;

Time and wind tug on the memory
left in this absent minded cemetery
no one comes visit but weather and me
and the dead lying under the trees

have stories nobody can read.

Summer was spent
on home improvements,
re-aligning old walls,
building new ones,
replacing doors that swing open
with others that stay closed,
and soundproofing,
soundproofing from top to bottom
so now we no longer hear the neighbours,
or each other,
or any one at all...

They said  'Above us,
rising soon,

will be a shining
supermoon,

with the sharpest
shine for years'.

We raised our blinds.
The sky closed hers..

Scaffolders grimly
work in Whitehall raising up
hopes of a hanging..

That was the end
of her holy affair,

when she knelt, out of habit
and felt fresh air

finding the gaps
where her gods once were

like light finds the edge of a door
when it's not shut so tight as before..

When the water is warm in July
beneath the Merseyside sky
he sets down his Pimms
and goes for a swim
on his back to keep his nuts dry.

Down by the sea
where the marram grass grows
there's a ******* the beach
in a rusting boat
with a tablecloth sail
and it's rudder broke
and her eyes are an ocean wide..

The rush
of the wind
stretched her face
in a smile
as the girl
on the swing
closed her eyes
for a while
and started
to sing
softly the verse
that she learned
the first time
she had
flown with
the birds.

The girl
on the swing
reached out
with her toes
for the
wide open sky
whilst
above and below
the birds
that had
taught her
the words
of their song
said
'Its time to let go'
so she did
and was
gone.

The night
sky spills
past and
fills the store
beneath with
pools of
blue shadow
and silence,
they are all
there, the
books, on
the shelves,
waiting
ready to drop
like Sundance
and Butch
making good
their escape,
if only I'd
seen how
they'd been
squeezed
in I could
liberate them
all, wrong
verb (perhaps),
but.....
     ...... what
use will be
tomorrow's
sunrise
with no
book to read
by it's light ?

There's beauty in words,
but often I find
more in the ones I have heard
than in mine;

more in the sound
of the ones I have read,
than those at the tip
of the tongue in my head..

I'm tired of this side
of the wall,
tired from the effort
it takes to maintain.
I'm tired and wonder
if it should fall
how long will it take me
to raise up again?
I'm tired of this side
of the wall,
so tired I numbered
every stone.
I'm tired and wonder
if ever it falls
will I have the courage
to leave it alone?

A certain song the sea wind knows
it sends thru puckered lips,

like kisses blown, across the bows
of drowsing sailing ships;

and stirs their sleepy sails
from their slumber with it's tune,

unfurls their folded petals
and brings them back in bloom.

She continues
her struggle
of keeping them in
but they're
starting to bubble
up over the rim
of the dam
when it breaks
the flooding
will make
such a wonderful place
to swim.

He knelt
for twenty
years and
more to
fan the
guttering
flame, and
when he
sifted
through
the ashes
found
no reason
to remain.

Under my skin
and my bones is a room
nobody visits
nor anyone see's

it's dark and it's cool
and it's mine and the rules
like the gaps in it's walls
are governed by me;

comfortably safe
by myself in this place,
a question persistently
troubles my sleep

has all the pretence
that's been it's defence
saved me or left me
buried too deep.

She reaches on tip toe
through windows and tries
to take hold of the outside
and gather it in,

for to feel the wind
and the pull of the tides
on the shrinking inside
of a life growing thin..

Moonbeams tread softly

on shining wire   

death waits

haunting shadow

hoping for cloud

and an unfortunate sole

to step forward..

Next time
you find yourself
standing in line
think a little differently
step sideways
or back
and commit a very small act of rebellion

but

not when queuing
at a supermarket checkout
if your hungry

and not
whilst waiting
at passport border control
as trigger fingers may start to twitch

and it would be best
to avoid doing so altogether
at a public ******
where stepping sideways
or back
can be a risky business
even with the place to yourself

on reflection it appears
there is a time
and a place
for everything
even
very small acts of rebellion

although
it ought to be said

a rebellion
that knows no hunger

a rebellion
that challenges neither borders
or control

a rebellion
that overly concerns itself with
******* in the designated area

has probably
entirely
missed the point.

Waiting for the sea she sits
writing with her fingertips
setting down herstory on the sand;

waiting, with a wistful eye
watching for the rising tide
wondering if stories can be drowned..