The windows on my painted sill,
Are covered by the winds and the spitting rain.
In my chamber, the sounds of thunder are bottled and shelved.
They roll just above my head, in the corners of my high ceiling,
Can’t reach them.

Stillness of the shadows in my dark room
are frightened by the light that is thrown from the murky sky.
The blackened sky, now light, they curse as they hiss and hide behind my wooden vanity.
And before the rumble of the thunder in my ceiling has begun,
they have crawled from the corners to be painted on the floor.

I wish to be the wind that beats itself against my window,
the waves that crash on distant sand and shores,
the blackened sky bruised
and bruising.

But how I wish I was not the glass and dusty window,
nor the shore that is beaten ‘till it is knowing nothing but movement and stillness.

How I wish I was not the chamber in which I sleep.
The chamber in which I sleep.

A turn round a tree,
In the deep blue forest.
Quiet as we are, drowned by
The sea.

Blushing in the cool air,
Waking like mist,
Listening, as we are, as the great sky,
Is kissed.

We tremble, high in the air, like
Harp strings.
Silent as we are, separated by some
Feathery wings.

Some ethereal air,
Is cold on our lips.
Quiet as we are, in the mornings
Soft prayer.

Breathing on the damp ground,
Falling like leaves,
Hushed as we are, chased by great
Blood hounds.

A turn round a tree,
In the deep blue forest.
Quiet as we are, drowned by
The sea.

Two lonely people sit together on a lonely street
The table is broken and wobbles when he leans.
They are not lonely when they can’t remember,
And they hold on to their forgetting like winter to September.

He speaks and she smiles,
He laughs like a child.
They nod and the sigh as they both sadly say
‘it’s so easy to be separate when the world looks away’

‘I prefer to be unknown than loved and alone’
He stops laughing when she says this, she goes quiet and lips are still.
He’s got dirt beneath his fingers, she’s got lines across her hand,
‘I’m glad we can be quiet and still we understand.’

‘do you recall, our graceful fall, into the passionate pit of love.’
‘I could not forget the day that we met, nor the day we could call it love.’
‘It was September, I still remember. A cool setting day, the sun far away,
And you were closer than ever.’

They say ‘don’t be sad’.
She smiles and she shrugs, glad she has loved, but knows now they are both very old.
‘we’re both very old’ he says he feels cold,
‘I feel cold when I do not feel you.’


They’ve got lines 'round their eyes, and coats that haven’t dried, because the air is heavy and damp.
‘It feels like September, with you and me; remember?’
He’s the best thing she’s known, but it's a lonely throne,
and they know that too well.

The sky is not quite blue, it is a sad and quiet hue,
The milky white and silvery bright of the clouds can stain the skies,
Better than she or he can hide their teary eyes.
Both don their coats, and play their final notes, as they smile and say goodbye.

Two quiet people walk a quiet street.
They both feel the cool earth beneath their feet.
They are happy when they can remember,
The childish grins and the strings of September.

There was little left,
On the fields.
The rain had come and gone and it was dry again.
Dusty hands and dusty faces frowned.
Dusty shoes kicked the powder ground,
Heads hung low in the slouching and shaded doorway.

Squinting eyes looked up at the yellow bowl,
Hands covered creased foreheads,
Mouths chewed tobacco in the thin shade of a dying tree.
There was little left to talk about and little less to see.

Children lost marbles in the heavy dust,
And mothers take deep breaths.
The sky turns the colour of dirt and rust.
Another day gone and there is little left to love.