As the days of holidays
flicker with the day and night,
I see the signs of innocence,
returning slowly to my dreams.

Slights or disappointments
from sunlit days of youth,
raw as when the blade first bit;
initials carved into the bark.

If scars are just an open wound
held together with a will,
then self doubt is a scurvy
that can split them up anew.

For a moment,
I fully expected
to see God's face
staring back at me
in the onion I had sliced.
But I didn't.
Soon after,
the onion sizzled.

Twice, recently, I've seen my daughter's stuffed toy Moomin
lying on his own in the hall and it's filled me
with an intense sadness.
Today, she'll be back to pick him up - her constant childhood companion - she'll squeeze him tight, love him, kiss him and
send his once white fur ever more grey.
But tomorrow? Or the next day?

Solitude is a dull parade -
The things unsaid,
Or said too much,
But never really shared.

The promises and fragrant lies;
How sweet they smell,
I forget how,
I never knew they’d sour.

But for careful untold truths
That wrap us up
In careless knots,
Simplicity itself

We’d live; beyond the tangled lines
Of lives. The dull
Parade, would fade,
And fade away to grey.

as the shortest day peeps out
from underneath the winter's grasp
the steady robin sits aflame
a flickered dance upon the fence

his eye an ever sideways trance
a grace note tucked within a song
for every hop, a little bow
the worldly nod to his know-how

I wish I had just some small part
of the patience he exudes
returning every darkened day
to flaunt the patterns of his art

I am not a robot
I am only
following
instructions

it's familiar trickery
in a master's hands -
the ever falling melody
occasionally lifted
just enough
to let the sunlight
shine through