His name is Magic -
not because of the wand,
the battered pointed hat,
or his habit of not letting dragons pass,
but because, time and time again,
he was there when needed
and did what was required
to make life go a little smoother.
- Magic.

I felt my self mix and fold
equal portions of opposing selves,
a mix and fold of savoury and sweet
dark and light, crunchy and smooth
intrigue and delight
until the sweet hit of my self doubt
eventually cloaked the savoury of self knowledge
creating a disturbing after taste, which blurted out:
"Surely not me, Lord?"
And he handed the bread and the wine to me.

I want those years. Promise me,
cos I want those years - it's not a lot to ask.

I want the years when you tell me our stories,
when we laugh and you sing our song,
when we dance slow and you breath on my neck.

I want those years and then we can sleep
together on our old bed. And we can keep the space
closed between us. And between us
we can have those years.

Please. Promise me.

A pick up at Gatwick
at way past midnight
is a glimpse into the void
tempered only by the joy
and delight of family
reunited

The sun is down
It's been down for a while
and while she hasn't said outright,
we think it might
be a power play
for a perceived lack of praise

The sun is down
We have been discussing
ways to raise her spirits
without out and out worship
(which would set
an unhelpful precedent)
And so we start with a song
A homage, thanking her
A call, asking her to rise and smile
And it only takes a child sacrifice
once, twice and thrice
to coax her back - a small price,
and before long she's her old delight
and we tell ourselves it's not worship
it's just the just payment due
based on the new tarrifs
for light and heat
and the cost of living
in this solar energy
over dependancy
greener economy

Let's raise our glass to the many and the few
and far between two stools waiting at the bar
with contaminated peanuts
for company and an empty
beer mat ready for the happy
hour rush. And only the lonely truly know
hurt only makes you stronger
and the truth of needing
a glass of something stronger still.

I’m 59 ¾ in my socks, passing older in my dreams
waking in the throw of that first roll out of bed
in my scrambled strike of the percussion snooze button
and my prayer for a delay of the inevitable.

I’m 59 ¾ , but arguably younger in polished shoes,
a pressed whistle and flute
(my creased cover for my wrinkled birthday suit),
and with the adoption of a purposeful stride
to a cramped train ride, a half empty office
and a hybrid solution to a healthier space.

I’m 59 and counting, giving me a final warning
and a diary alert reminding me I have 3 months
to write my bucket list, 3 months before I’m due to kick,
to tick-off my been-meaning-to’s.
3 months of prep, 3 months to lose weight,
get fit, work out, work up a script
for an epic epitaph.

3 months, then I’m in the last quarter – maybe.
Or maybe that was it.
Maybe I’m too late for this pep talk.
Maybe too late by 10 years.
Maybe I should have just hit snooze
and stayed in bed.