I do not need to see the ocean—
It is enough to just sit here,
where the waves land,
back against the patience of stone,
as waves fumble into the shore—
a quiet gathering of salt and foam.

The air thickens with brine,
weaving itself into my lungs—
seeping into the lines of my hands.
I taste it—in the hollow found
between my thoughts,
where words begin even before
they have been given letters
to stitch together.

I am not looking to surrender—
just to let something greater than myself
move through me, willingly.
I let the tide write its own language
against my skin, against the silence
that beckons me, making me
part of it all.

This is how a poet listens—
not with tired eyes or hands,
just the slow inhale of salty mist,
and the knowing that words will come
only after the waves have spoken.

Here as I sit, leaning gently
against my favorite boulder.

Growing up you realise that running away isn’t actually sprinting full pell-mell through a forest

It’s a hollow room once lived in, stacked full of boxes
Some half full and others bursting
And silence echoing
Just bouncing off the walls
Looking for a place to be
The sharp sound of a tape dispenser cutting though it
Bubble wrap shuffling
Hoping that nothing else but your heart breaks on the way

I’ve picked myself up many times, but
sweeping up fine china is never fun ..

Sunlight shines on my colour pencils
Bright, varied, and hue
A cat catches sight of a pigeon
Amongst the neighbours blooms

*
Spring is here