Steam escapes the surface
Of infant mince pies.
Spiralling upwards, it dances
Into the winter haze
Where headlights, opaquely visible,
Shine beams stopped short in the fog.

The mist flurries atop the frozen pond,
Over brittle leaves, half caught.
The deer nuzzles in frosty thickets,
Searching the winter veil
For stray nut.

Mittened song sheets conduct
a huddle of duffle coats
and frosted boots, rooted in the snow.
Sweet carols leave notes hanging
in tranquil harmony.

‘neath the tap my hands endure
The bitter cold of winter’s water;
But happily I return to my window,
And cast a gaze once more on winter Britain.
The fire leaves a smoky essence,
A homely smell.
December come.

Skyscrapers scarfed in dawn's mist,
their torsos shrouded by nature's wisps
a reminder that man made this,
that wind and the water could show it
its end.

Metropolis unharmed,
lit windows like the glints of a thousand eyes.
Unknowing and blissful.
The fog unfolds like an opened hand,
palms upwards, swaying in the boulevard.

Happ'ly I stand, upon the mountain's edge
and admire the regal coexistence
of man and its maker.

We'll never get
those times back now,
least not for real,
in mind maybe,
viewing photographs,
recalling past times,
long ago laughs.

But now it's just that,
memories in stacks,
memories of you,
places, things done,
things said; gone now,
you being dead.

You kept words
to a minimum,
used them
like precious coins;
seldom making
statements; rarely
getting in involved
in the small talk,
the day to day banter;
but when you did,
came out of your shell,
it all meant
something more,
special, done well.

Even at the Tate Modern
you kept your views
of the art and artists
to yourself; their skill
or lack of, never
mentioned or hinted at;
just your quiet viewing,
that way you had
of taking things in,
ordering them neatly
inside your head;
your encyclopediatic  
knowledge of matters,
or so seemed,
you processed;
that look you had,
seemingly impassive,
unmoved, but moved
you were, a soul like
yours so often is,
deeply moved that is,  
your eyes taking in,
your mind processing
the whole show,
as you did before,
in your own way
of having your say.

Wish you were
still here, with your
few words, that look
of yours, back here today.

my mother was a dental hygienist and dad thinks he's an architect
which means i'm used to sharpened stainless steel exploring the interior of my jawbone and lying to my father to let him keep believing he built me from the ground up.

I'm not sure if it was a drunken idea,
or one of ecstatic stupidity,
but finally, from indirect jokes
we took to the alley,
greasy and haunting in itself,
we crossed the deathly narrow lane
to the tattoo place.

Neon-lit and consumed in the atmosphere
of alcohol and some illegal drug somewhere,
we picked out the incomplete chain--
one for you and one for me--
so that when our bodies came together,
we completed each other.

We completed each other.

You got yours and I got mine.

And now a year later,
you have had yours removed,
and are now thinking why you got one in the first place.

But you never knew, did you?

I didn't just love you,
I loved you for who you were,
for all you were,
for all you had been.

I wasn't just a stupid girl,
filled with the butterflies of first loves.
I was in love with you.
Fallen, completely.

You left your scars.
You left your scars.

You would never know, now would you?

That while you were looking away,
I got mine
in permanent ink.

**We completed each other.
Now
I can barely complete myself.