It's a small bar,
with old wooden tables
and no music:
I like to get a break sometimes
and I come here every Sunday
after my CBT sessions.
The waitress smiles.
She is Spanish too but
-it's that white mist
taking over my mind again-
I can't articulate
and I just speak English,
hoping she doesn't notice
my accent.

When she brings me
a dark decaf coffee -even if
I have asked for a decaf tea-
and I taste it,
and it tastes horrible,
I lose balance and stumble
for a moment
("you are going to fail",
and "this is all your fault",
and "just let it go, don't move,
it'll pass").

It is such a small detail
in the grand scheme of things,
but this decaf coffee, this black mist,
makes me feel that
there is something wrong with me.

I look through the window:
across the road, a student residence,
all windows and shining glass.
A girl goes up the stairs
with a blue basket in her hands;
she is probably making the laundry.
Another girl leans on the sill,
and smokes. I invent a life for them,
and it's a good life - a life to praise.

I want to go back to Uni, I think,
and for a moment I feel safe, and warm.
("Nevermind,
I'm too old, after all").

I pay for the coffee and leave.
In two hours, she'll have clean clothes,
and I don't know where I'll be
(especially on days like these,
when my mind feels heavy,
and weak).

I am leaving this house,
where I once dreamed of a shared life,
shards of future reflecting the light,
telling me “you can do this, yes,
you can”.

Somebody left;
the roots were shaken
but the tree still stands.

I am leaving this house,
this refuge, solid ground.
There was only a dark night;
it lasted for two weeks,
and I survived.

I am leaving this house.
(I didn’t sleep for two weeks,
that time, but it’s over now,
I am fine).

I live in this city alone.
It is always cloudy here.
It is cold and it rains all the time
but you could find love
if you wanted. That's what
I tell myself when I'm wet and cold
on a lonely street, walking home.
You could look through the window
of an old Victorian house and,
seeing a beautiful family
in a living room full of books,
think “this could be my family”.
Or, on another reality, “that
could be me, as a child or, maybe
one day, as a father”.
The city has no limits, take advantage,
this could be your land.
You could call this city home,
bend it it to your will
if you wanted to.
Take this city in your hands
and squeeze it.
Forge a big heart out of it
or some wings.
Just give it a chance,
it’s not too late
and you still need to get home
and it's ****** raining
                                   again.

on the platform
a girl drops a pink tissue
and it lies there,
all scrunched up like a rose

So as I approach the all to familiar landscape I used to call my home, I look up to the sky above and, well what do you know...
Its beginning to rain, just a bit of light drizzle overhead.
Yet I know once I step foot off this bus and on to solid ground.
The heavens they will open and the umbrellas will be out.
I shall be soaked from head to foot.
In precipitation and perspiration whilst  running for shelter from the storm.
It's kind of irritating but it also what keeps me warm.
The knowledge that it doesn't change whilst I am away.
This dank and dismal place called Manchester.
Can still brighten up the grey.

by Sara L Russell
(For the casualties of Manchester Kennels, 12/9/14, 21:05)

Old trusty Bob, sure-footed in the lead,
Truffles and Sandy bringing up the rear;
And all the others, with no faith or creed,
Yet representing all that's loved and dear.

They run along the path to Paradise
To where no faithful hound need ever die;
A playful eagerness lights up their eyes,
As clouds and gliding seraphim go by.

Garlands of stars and quasars light the way
The scent of incense lifts their spirits high
Nobody shouts commands to sit or stay;
Freedom is calling from beyond the sky.

Saint Peter tells each one "Rest easy, friend;
Your earthy suffering is at an end."