The cicatrise of damage
Slowly softened
Worn smooth
By wind and weather
Water and tenderness maybe
Was once raw red and obvious
Now blended
Into your skin map
Your patchwork of encounters
With knife, heat and gravity

Some strange nobility
And ownership imparted
Not in your DNA
Inherited
Or chosen
But somehow valued
Like an old photograph
A Braille memory
Absentmindedly revisited
With evocative touch

Collective memory
Reclaimed from drives, discs & sticks
Because we own it
We are it

Immovable cultural concrete
Vast empty spaces
Where industry was

New even smaller devices
For making things easier & quicker

The very same love
Awkwardness & despair

A new neat way to eat
Retro hetro metro
More yellow
& probably less meat

How would it be
if I filled my lungs
stepped forward and blew
Would you fall apart
and drift away in the breeze
a dandelion clock
exploded by little

Would you bend but not break
and return
Would you sway
to avoid the draught?
Or become a musical note?
Resonating
Resonating

Would you turn the other cheek
blushing
Would you find me ridiculous
or become a wave
across a field of corn?
Would you make wind chimes speak
or windmills turn
Would you be extinguished?

And if I blew
Just enough
to move your lashes
just enough
to move you
Would you wait
for the words to follow?

You misunderstood the remit
The toolkit for brilliant
You will never be
perfectly blond, brown or red

We are not cartoons
or icons
Ignore the urging
air brush big brand market

Unique is what you are
Celebrate your difference
Paint yourself your own colour

I sometimes let you fall
Not far
Not hard
But far and hard enough
That my hand
In the small of your back
Around your upper arm
Or waist
Feels heroic
At least
That’s what I hope  

I sometimes fall silent
Not for long
Not for effect
But long and with affect enough
That my words
When spoken
In our space
And your presence
Have weight & substance
At least
That’s what I wish for

You’ve changed
imperceptibly yet obviously
since the last time

You’ve changed
something has shadowed
your sunshine
Clouded things

You’ve changed
you dress impeccably still
and wear your heart on your sleeve
embroidered with care
into the fabric of you

You’ve changed
I see age creeping into the corners of your eyes
edging into the mirrors
framing the light
claiming you

You’ve changed
the things we shared
are now past
distant
and our language
of intimacy
forgotten
shifted
to polite familiarity
lacking finesse

I’ve changed
Moving quietly away
from the totem
that was you
re-evaluated what it was
reviewed assumptions
in detail
in colour
and learned
evolved

We’ve changed
lost our polarity
the semblance of kindred-ness
that we celebrated
valued and cosseted
we have let go
moved
realised
and grown

I’d like a black poets’ suit
single breasted
poets’ uniform
a suit
& where would I acquire
the suit
I now desire?

Is there a specialist tailor
dressing
the bards of our nation
so similarly
selecting incorrectly
the size skilfully
artfully adding angst ridden
creases

Around the thighs
Shaping bulging pockets
As if a tome of verse
Had just been removed
and ensuring that the sleeves
Were roll-upable
For pub gigs

I’d like a poets suit
in black
well weathered from
earnest waiting
nay celebrating
rail sides in winter
& the last train home

I’d like some Doctor Martens
black & comfortable
for performing in
and neutral fashion wise
in the eyes
of those that look
beyond the book

And I’ll wear them
With my poets suit
My white(ish) shirt
& splendid spectacles
& not only
Will I look like a 'poet'
But I'll feel like one too