I pine for,
     crescent moons
     and star-peppered skies.

I notice and hear,
     swaying silhouettes
     and whistling night breezes.

I anticipate,
     the expiring hours
     and dew-scented earth.

I only exist in,
     extended silences
     and shattered lenses.

.

Someday will come for us.
Till then our blemished secrets
and tarnished dreams only lay in wait.

Our hands may now yield nothing...
But “someday” sleeps quiet
at the back of our minds.
Awaiting for enough time to elapse.

Someday can never be rushed.
It can never be summoned.
It will come when it comes
and when it does, we’d hardly notice
it’s arrival because the anticipation
and longing will be replaced by overwhelming happiness and relief.

So wait...
It will come.
Someday “someday” will be today.

dawn chorus awakes
the tired mind revolts' groans
pillow over  ears

the small meaness of it
shocked me,  really in
this day and age
you would think
we had worked our way
past this sort of petty thinking

but no, apperently there are still
social neanderthals out there
who, when seeing some one different
have to poke fun at them,

before i could voice my outrage
at their actions my boy came
to the defense of his friend
standing up and calmly saying
difference is good, if we were all bullies
like you...then the world would be horrible
then taking the hand of his friend
he turned his back on the instigators
and walked back over to me

never have i been prouder

the irregular rhythm
of the wood windchimes
lulls me into a sort of sleep
one where dreams are based
on worried realities yet
magnified in a daliesque manner
all bent out of shape and pooling
at my feet, in garish coloured mists
whist in the background something whispers
"tis the gloaming upon us resist, resist!"

and the chorus line of purring cats
play with prawnheads and green tree frogs

i feel myself drowning in these mists, that
smell like fresh baked chocolate cake
and i try to care,
but sleep overcomes me
and the dreams slipside away
until  i awaken
in the cooler part of the day
and recall with haziness
the heat of earlier
and the swirl of the dreams .

the cat sits, staring at me, purring,
at its feet a toy mouse,
and i smell chocolate cake,
being baked by son and husband...
all apparently  is normal
with the exception of
the irregular rhythm
of the wood windchime.

father is at work
mother feels her hurt
father washes pain away with red smelling drinks
mother with her drugs
father is never here
mother is always here
the way the earth turns, they’re still both the light in my world.