She follows, she follows...
A Poem by Corset


It's Christmas again
 we try to try
and we confess to
a kind of madness

we gather
the smell of your skin
dangling like lost stars
while millions mass
entitled to our sick days

Tree top swing
eyelids sweating in white pulse
'cause you do not understand
intimacy until you have
shaved your wife in the
wilderness of cowboys
and the dust settled dawn

hoof and mane remain the same
conversation

I try to remember the sound
of your laughter,
I can only recall mine,
it is meant to be
only a few moments ago
Christmas Eve like a thirsty
rabbit went into his hole
drank him deep asleep
into the floor

our working class demons
can't look at each other
without a pick axe and
all I can think is

"I hope you got tailgate"
and she follows, and she follows
the one,
that my brothers and sisters
call "the missing" dream.

I wear your winter coat
The one you love to wear
So I keep feeling close
To us beyond compare
The moment we can have
You catch me in your eyes
That beauty on my pillow
That holds me in the night

And I will find my strength to untape my mouth
When I used to be afraid of the words
But with you I've learned just to let it out
Now my heart is ready to burst
'Cause I, I feel like I'm ready for love
And I wanna be your everything and more
And I know every day you say it
But I just want you to be sure
That I'm yours

And if I've been feeling heavy
You take me from the dark
Your arms they keep me steady
So nothing could fall apart
And I will find my strength to untape my mouth
When I used to be afraid of the words
But with you I've learned just to let it out
Now my heart is ready to burst
'Cause I, I feel like I'm ready for love
And I wanna be your everything and more
And I know every day you say it
But I just want you to be sure
That I'm yours
That I'm yours

Songwriters: Ella Henderson / Josh Record

I climb the buckled road:
always the smell of dampness
from the moss and in my clothes
the soaking rain.

Scotland’s lost.

The high hills shrug the clouds off
but the mists descend.

Along the road
the ancient deer graze slowly
where the raindrops shatter on bleached stones.

I turn the dead page of her letter
where the ink runs slowly under
water and begin that old procedure:

I will forward every sheet by hand
to hills where clouds burst:

those mysterious postmen
nullifying my deliveries.

.
She sits for most of the time,
in a metal chair with wheels.
Counting out the value of life
with an injury that never heals.

She waits for most of the time,
to confirm that she is really there.
But how many people notice her
sat down in her wheel-chair.

She's invisible for most of the time,
she is there but nobody spies.
So she spreads her tiny wings
and floats unnoticed to the skies.

She cried for most of the time,
always alone and lonely in a crowd.
Now flying free her spirit rises,
there's no discrimination in the clouds.


© Pagan Paul (25/12/16)