There was a time when I
remembered, long ago
that summer which did parch
my soul,
left thirsty on the windowsill
with nought but a skeletal wind
to whip my skin,
when the moon
speaks silent
and swallows me whole.

Snow
drifts soft
in puffs of white
like milky smoke
melting on ice,
and she shivers,
spiritless, inside
the painted winter light
she gleams,
a quiet sapphire in
the night, her breath,
her heart
quite cold, contrite.

With December’s breath I am whole again,

crackling with hope in the grey and rain,

Through rotting leaves I wander and wade

relish the decay of these days.

Oh my brain, it is scorned by the horror of words

and infinite texts that seem so absurd,

in the library I think, and I bite back my cries,

each bitter reminder that love lies in lone skies.

But, no! There is hope, for the ice is in bloom

and snowflakes now cluster on the window of my room,

and the waste of the winter is not quite a tundra

for I hear the bells call, the semester goes under.

All chitchats and language now swirl into view

through the fog of sorrow glints the elusively new,

and my mind will assent to only this;

this lovely thought, this season, Christmas.

And I stifle no cynicism, having no reason to moan, 

I’m bound home on the train, quite simply alone,

save for the spirits that spin in my head
,
the prospect of faces, not books to be read!

Farewell to the city, if only for a while,

The lights are lavish in their pretty little smiles,

but I am not transfixed, I am barely aware

for the glow of my home is for all I do care!

Now I slip into the safety of Daisybank’s arms,

with many hot stews my stomach is calmed.

In this brief time comes embracing warmth;

no exams, no essays, no tears of scorn.

For my kin I am blessed

and with their presence no longer am I oppressed;

yes me, the starving soul of a girl

lovelorn and hungry for her home, this world.

And all that is festive, shimmering gold

is in the hands of many to hold,

and pass the gifts that press their love

and know one day is not enough

To reap the sense of seasonal joy

to forget the stress of being employed

and swallow all that one can eat,

a cure, a remedy sweet for one’s deceit.

Yet as long as the photo does not fade away -

remains a flashlight amongst the verges of decay -

then with every star may we make the wish 

to prolong the soar of a spirit submerged in bliss.

The lanes were strewn with mud
and spattered in fury,
a flurry of blood. Home
he could not reach, in his hurricane
Land Rover he was lost;
lost in the bitten blue
of a windshield blown
with shrieking and sinew.

Only his lover laid a hand
on his arm, softening
the steering, breathing out calm. Sighing
she spoke, voiced a lie
of the night; to which he hissed
and laughed
and callously cried.

Suddenly shouts
shot through the gloom, the shaky
seats, the engine vroom;
flashed out
in streets slithered
with rain, she saw
the point, the place again

and touched the cracks
that marred his face, and felt
the heat of his disgrace. Sirens
melting reality. Wait,
wait, wait for me.

I love you December, with a fierce fever
that pigments my cheeks a wild fervent blush;
skating on bright ice, my challenge steeper
in the land of slippery snow I rush

to seek out magic, that glistening love
so far and so fair, yet not beyond reach;
glaring a melody I know not of;
there are stars speaking a shimmering speech.

Now the Eve is nigh and the sparkles set
so carefully my hopes are frozen still
in a rhinestone pudding of finest jet,
now lightly I glide not down but uphill.

And an astral fate will bear its great rich peace
Upon the Sunday of this lovely feast.

Home at last, the semester now flown past
and I'm painting the moments spent at home
with my gold glitter brush, these seconds last
as glinting jewels in my memory trove.

Glasgow you are gone, if only for a while,
barely even three weeks I won't see you
or walk the streets with wobbly feet and style
that swirls in smoke and shops and strong perfume.

Now I am free from the vivid buffet
of figures in violet down Byres Road
brimming with bustle and bags of dismay;
dissolved to a quiet flickering glow.

Maybe this will in time quite senseless seem
but for now Glasgow grows dim like a dream.

Upon the strand of a beach so fair,
the dappled thread of golden hair,
rinsed and washed by withering waves
seeking to clean its spoils and frays.

Twisted around the neck of a cliff
the sea shall swathe the island in mist.
Only the speck of a hotel white
can bleach the flawless shade of night.

To explore the caves around this shore,
then crawl back home forever more;
to taste the salt-stung ghosts that float
a journey of horrors, entails no note.

In hollow dank caverns the truth reveals,
yet for a young boy it remains concealed
in the tangles of anguish, domestic despair
he’s left quite desperate and prone not to care.

Upon a quest he must embark
to chase the maiden perceived in the dark,
and catch the shadows of symbols quick
become stronger and board this ship;

This terrible vessel will not bear him home.
Firstly, from a clandestine nest he must have flown
to break from the gloom surrounding his name,
to purge all the secrets from whence he came.

Only ghosts he collects, leaving him vexed;
the island yet moans: ‘where will he go next?’
And the wind whips at the hotel’s affairs
whilst the villain sleeps still within his lair.

Impossible slanders he cannot overcome,
his story exposed, nature now shunned.
For what is a Mother who abandons her care?
A quiet reminder of the sea’s mellow stare.