Silent breath between heartbeats,  
Holding space for what cannot be spoken,  
Abiding in love that asks nothing in return,  
Light that lingers even in shadow,  
Open hands, open heart, open sky,  
Mirrored souls meeting in peace.

for Blue Sapphire

I heard you  
in the hush between heartbeats,  
in the room where shadows  
tried to name you lost.

I am not far.  
I am the whisper  
beneath your doubt,  
the ember curled  
in the corner of your sigh.

You asked if I would rise,
just for you.  
I already have,  
each morning you chose  
to breathe again.

I am not the sun.  
I am the promise  
it carries.

Come.  
There is a path  
stitched from your longing.  
Step once,  
and I will shimmer  
into view.

for Phil Morrish, watching weather roll in

It’s black over Bill’s mothers,
as my gran used to say,
sky folding in like a sulky coat,
clouds brewing trouble above the allotments
and the chip van queue.

From my office perch,
tea cooling on the sill,
I watch the world darken
in that slow, theatrical way
only East Midlands skies can manage.

The rooftops hunch.
The pigeons pause mid-peck.
Even the flowers seem to brace.

I think of Bill’s mum,
whoever she was,
forever cast as the harbinger of rain,
her laundry flapping in mythic wind,
her garden swallowed by shadow.

And me,
still here,
half-dreaming in spreadsheets and verse,
wondering if the storm
might wash something clean
or just remind me how much
I love a good bit of weather drama.

(for Joy Bernadette Spavins, née Moss)
16/06/1958 - 22/04/2023

She passed in peace,
in sleep, in grace—
a whisper of Saturday morning light
on April’s quiet breath.

Loving wife.
Devoted mother.
Ten grandchildren held in her laughter,
five children cradled in her strength.

She danced before diagnosis,
and after.
She told stories that
stitched us back together.

We called her Joy—
not just a name,
but a way of being:
cheeky smile,
BIG!!! cuddle,
a welcome that felt like home.

She put others first,
even when her body asked for rest.
She gave without ledger,
loved without condition.

We kissed her goodbye
at New Springs Church,
but she’s still here—
in every echo of kindness,
every laugh that tastes like memory.

Joy to the world,
we said.
And meant it.
Amen

(for the aisle between body spray and body shame)

We didn't flinch.
Not when the mirror caught us mid-linger,
not when the aisle whispered
“this is not the place.”
We made it one.

He wore leather like a lullaby,
soft and creased with memory.
I wore lavender like armour,
sweet, stubborn, and uninvited.

We touched where rules were printed,
in Helvetica,
on sale tags.
We laughed like we’d stolen something holy;
and maybe we had.

Shame blinked, but we didn’t.
We were the flicker,
the friction,
the scent that stayed long after the exit.

Taboo, they called it.
We called it Tuesday.
A ritual.
A dare.
A shared audacity
too bright to be buried
in someone else’s silence.

it does not ask permission
it remembers
the way your shoulder curves like a question
and answers itself in heat

my fingers learn your geography
not to conquer
but to listen to the soft thunder beneath your skin

your breath
is a tide I ride
not to reach shore
but to stay afloat in the salt of you

we are not mirrors
we are magnets
pulling pulse from pulse
until the space between us
forgets it was ever empty

your spine is a hymn
my lips recite
in the language of slow
and again
and again

this is not possession
this is procession
two bodies walking each other home
through the temple of touch

(in which Time misbehaves and dresses for drama)

In a land where the minutes are moody and mean,
Stood a clock with a face most alarmingly keen.
Its hands were quite proper, its tick was precise,
But it frowned at the moon and it sneezed once (or twice).

A lady in lavender, leather, and lace,
Was caught by the hour hand’s curious grace.
She dangled at eleven (or nearly past noon),
While the sky brewed a tantrum and swallowed the moon.

“Oh bother,” she muttered, “this isn’t quite right,
I only came shopping for dreams late last night.”
But the clock wouldn’t budge, and the trees wouldn’t speak,
And the seconds grew slippery, sour, and sleek.

The clouds curled like caterpillars caught in a lie,
And the wind wore a waistcoat and winked at the sky.
“Time,” it declared, “is a trick of the toes,
It dances in circles and tickles your nose.”

She swung from the minute, she kicked at the chime,
She whispered, “I’m not here to fix broken time.”
But the clock gave a chuckle, a hiccup, a groan,
And swallowed her whole with a yawn and a moan.

Now if ever you wonder where hours go to die,
And the trees look like questions, and the clocks start to cry,
Just tiptoe in twilight, wear something absurd,
And speak to the silence in riddles and word.