Beads of rain
fall upon the window
So light
they are barely audible.

Placid trails link
forming brief dribbles
too lacking to create
a proper trickle.

If only tears gathered
to fashion such delicate gems
of broken watery veins
instead of desolated dreams.

It is only a little word, but carries so much on its shoulders.
Often overlooked as an emotion when placed next to the big ones:
fear, love, hate, jealousy, happiness, greed.
Without it what would we be?
What purpose would we have?
It is a catalyst from which dreams are cast
and possibilities reached.
As an idea it is only touched upon, but without it nothing would be worth following through.
Nothing would drive us
Life would lack ambitions.
When it is gone everything seems broken
no last gasping chances left.
It is embedded in every aspect of life
and yet it quietly hides.
When uttered, it sounds weak,
but can be strong enough to move mountains,
overthrow governments and rattle tyrants off their throne.
Or simply it is enough to finish third in a race,
or be on time for a meeting,
or for the tests to come back negative.
Our hope.

Charles used to say hello to everybody
even to us children
as he quickly walked to the shops, for the bus or home.
For us children to be counted as equals with adults
to be included
in a kind greeting
was something special.
It felt nice.
Often he'd spy a piece of *******: a cellophane wrapper lodged in a bush, a squashed drinks can next to a tree trunk or a balled up newspaper tumble-weeding across the road.
He'd pick them up, but only on his way home.
We guessed he binned them, but we never knew.
"Hi, hello. Grand morning, grand, grand," the words spoken as rapidly as his feet moved.
"Hi Charles. Yes, it's a fine day." This was the most anybody replied as he swiftly paced home clutching a takeaway bag while a pile of litter was hinged in the crux of his arm by his chest.
A giant of a man
A head taller than the tallest father.
His face was that of an aged cherub: warm, friendly, cleanly shaved and full.  
I am uncertain, but think his jet black hair was styled like a Teddyboy.
Still as children, but a little older,
a little less naive,
a little more curious,
Something kicked in.
A discovery that he was not like the other adults in our lives.
He always smiled.
"Hi, hello. A bit nippy today."
"Hi Charles. Best wrap up."
"Yes, yes," he would add with a nod and smile before carrying on about his way.
Older still and I asked about him.
Not fully comprehending all the words such as "Mental breakdown,"
but he had one a long, long time ago.
"He used to be a scientist in London," I was told, "but he had a mental breakdown."
The phrase carried weight because it was always whispered as if he could hear through the walls and houses two streets away.
Everybody said how terribly sad it was.
But Charles always smiled.
I wondered who it was saddest for.
Despite my ignorance of things I understood that I should feel sorry for him, so I did (a bit).
I really felt sorry for was us children.
It was understood he only ever said hello because he had a "breakdown" and if he didn't he would be like the rest of adults in the neighbourhood.
Knowledge stole this from us.
For Charles who was a kind man once.

The cobbled stone street unraveled like bubble wrap
waiting to protect her delicate heals as they tip-tapped
and echoed back
the lateness of the hour.
Hard shadows softened and relaxed
when her silhouette
blackened out the neon's stuttering
prolonging the blinking candy colours
into moments of borrowed night.
Her movements were that of a swallow on wing
liquid and seamless.
She was a lullaby traversing beneath centuries old granite walls
Stepping blindly, but never missing a step.
Even the gutter rats wondered who she was as they scurried to avoid startling her.
She disappeared with the diminishing tip-tap. The sound tapered to a fine point then......................no more.

He has the heart of a tattered harlequin
Patched and re-patched with rags of broken times that were once good.
The cloth of its chambers is worn and threadbare
Held by the shreds of borrowed nights and comical stolen mornings.

He has the heart of a battered harlequin
And regret has turned his blood to the colour of rust
Unanswered questions congeal and clog his pulse
When he is lonely and aching, time - not isolation- is his worst enemy

He has the heart of a knackered harlequin
Kept moist by whiskey and gin, and uppers and downers that he pops like candy
He has a patchwork sack of a heart
It can never be filled and often feels empty.

They were dry tinder
   Cautious of the passion on the cusp of friction
       Back-stepping each possible spark
          And ignition
            To burn feverishly.
Their retreats only added kindle to their bodies' desire
   Crying out for flaming tongues to lick
     And flicker
       And erupt in
        A blazing inferno of utter combustion.
It was not the uncontrollable white heat they feared
  But the fear of eventually running out of fuel
    The backwash when nothing but
      Char and ash remain
         And the last embers snuffed out.
The yearning like smoke
  Forever lost on the bellows of time
    It was not the burning they dreaded
      But being burnt.