She listens to Kate Bush
on a Sunday morning
looks out on her garden
and the new buds flowering
sipping Earl Gray tea
a spoon of sugar she's stirring
then says to me,
"Bet you wish it was raining."

"How'd you know?"
"'Cause your a child of the rain.
I sense it in your smile,
but I can't explain.
There's a strangeness to your eyes
like a constant pain.
Just thought you should
know what I see."
I think she knows me.

Sometimes I feel
I belong in the twilight
as it falls into night
amidst the silhouettes of trees and vanishing birds.
Just before the darkness  
completes its full shroud.
Its nature hushes me
like the final rotation
of a spinning coin
or the last inhale
before a kiss.

There is a flow to you
silk ribbon soft
only noticeable when you are unaware of admiring eyes,
but a flow of sorts
hard to pin propperly here.
A flow of body and heart
in movement
in breath  
mostly gentle,
but it can snap like a whip
if things are unjust.
Mostly it is fluid
unpretentious and free.
I could never tell you this.

An oasis beyond a mirage,
a diamond beneath broken glass
some questions beg to be asked
is this worth persuing?

A rainbow at the tailend of a storm
a winning answer when all others were wrong.
Some roads take too long
is this one worth persuing?

An honest opinion among a nest of lies.
A truthful glimpse of what's behind the disguise.
Dwindling hope in why I should try.
Is this thing worth persuing?

A gentle landing after a turbulent fall
a pulse of love when your exhausted from it all.
Can we break through or do we hit a wall
Are we worth persuing?

The worst are the ones who don't realise they're being hurtful.
The ones who can't grasp anothers grumble.
The ones who can't hear the views of those around them.
The ones that don't drop it when you caution them.
The ones that can't see what's in front of them.
The ones that can't see past their own opinions.

She stood so still,
so silent,
freeze-frame focus.
a pinpoint of calmness
staring towards
the horizon where
ozone touches ocean
as she would
with one fluid motion,
one leap of perfection
from cliff ledge
to plunge and merge
so still, so silently
not a ripple
would mark her passing.

scrolled shavings
feather light
take flight
captured on breeze
in graceful fall.
skinned by deft hand
working the blade
whittling dormant shapes
made awake
with each stroke
of sharp edge
upon wood.
I'd watch his rough
hands move
with an unassumed dexterity and gentleness
born from experience
of one gifted in perceiving the form hidden from all eyes
but his.
This time bringing to life
a song thrush resting on a rock.