The doctor whispers—
her own thoughts will harm her.

She inhales the scent
of black bean soup,
decides it must be dangerous.

Before her death,
her chair at the table sat empty
for years.

Now the woman is old,
asking again:

Why can’t I eat today?

Too beautiful to touch the bowl,
she waits for their eyes—
to see how she grew stronger
by refusing hunger and
learning to relove herself

I couldn’t decide what to eat.
There is no space in my fridge for despair.
I tore into fruit, soft at the edges,
ate it down to the core.
I dreamed of something sweeter
and ripe.

Then came the crunch—
crisps and fresh carrots breaking sharply in my mouth.
Today, I make no room for self-pity.

The flavours carried me to the garden,
my hands reaching for bananas,
brightening my day
reminding me to eat, to cherish,
to value the harvest from the garden.
I can't wait to eat all over again

The Old Home

Home rests where the heart remembers,
in the house that first held me.
At the heart of the home
two children grew sturdy
within its warm embrace,
an old home upon an older street.
Here is my home that rests on red brick walls
tall and strong
ceilings high, windows open to the warm light.
Shrubs traced the garden’s edges,
centring a fountain found nearby.
Paintings gathered on the walls,
the fireplace shared its warmth,
and archways curved elegantly.
No grand welcomes—
only my own small story,
an old narrative.
And as I close my eyes I am grateful still,
that this old house is mine.

I’d rather listen to rain falling,
or wander away to the sea with my dog.
I'd rather climb a mountain,
I’d rather whisper a prayer in church
or share a warm cup of tea with my children,
than sit and hear your song.

Farewell  - Do not weep
my presence has not left you
I will still be there

On a golden, sunlit day
I bought daffodils on a cornerstand in the big city.
I had no wish to buy flowers in the weight of traffic,
only to rest with my face lifted in a wide field.
The sky is a canvas of calm blue.
The grass, a field of deep, lush green
You cannot know how free it feels—
how brimming the world is,
how utterly at peace.

I drifted through the field, light as a cloud,
And now I stand among endless blooms—
A life so radiant, so beautiful.

I am something
I have handed my health to doctors,
my favourite flowers to secrecy.

I have traded my creativity for a poem,
and my heart for a man.
Despite it all, I am someone.