An Autumn School Run

The drizzle wraps and holds us in a damp bubble as the white sky stares down. The yellow leaves have let go, they are sodden and glowing.

On the rain soaked bus steaming
you draw faces and stick men on the windows.
We talk of how new year is big in London,
and how I saw celebrations there in the year 2000.
We talk of how you won’t be able to see them in the year 3000
because you won’t be here anymore.

Outside the autumn leaves fall and let go. 

Hungry

While putting away our laundry

I find a small luminous green caterpillar,
it is in a clean duvet cover
that had been brought inside days ago.

Carrying it gently downstairs to the garden
it’s head reaches out probing, calling,
like a chick in it’s nest,
open mouthed and squawking.

Like my beautiful new born baby son,
in those first few days before my mind cracked,
open mouthed, craving for my milk,
then snorting in satisfaction.

I leave my green friend on a leaf gobbling.
Me, I crave the intimate Light; longing, hungry. 

Dead White Butterfly

A white butterfly has died

on the uppermost leaf of our sunflower.
She is delicate, translucent, surrendered.

She has a beloved, he is fluttering around her, nudging,
pressing to awake, a desperate hope.
Or is he bullying her, in her last moments?
I long for the first to be true.

I see a third butterfly arrive, wondrous,
she is gently caressing and calling
for her friend to loosen, release, renew.

I watch them fly away together to freedom.
They are a hushed trinity
who whisper of letting go,
of transformation, of resurrection.

Bursting

You are pacing upstairs: thump, thump.
Your mutterings fly butterflies
into a whirling sun.
Your gold dust speckled world
is swirling around you.

I know you will break free from straight line chains,
from dry bone conformity.
You will fly, soar, your own way,
a hidden creature not discovered yet,
bursting colour, dazzling. 

Eternal

There’s a wholeness, a rightness,

a seed at the heart of everything.
Darkness tumbles, obliterating.
But this soars, transcending.

All the worries, gnawing, striving,
will fall away, dust floating.
While the seed blooms eternal,
the roots strong, holding. 

The Other Way

I’m going the other way. The decaying world of straight, neat, vertical lines can collapse and devour itself. I want no part of it.

I’m going the other way.
Away from certainties, should's,
pompous and grasping up.

I’m with kindness, tenderness, connection deep.
I’m with creating, expressing
so I can rejoice with others in their divine creating.

I’m with trying to love the earth,
trying to break the thick walls that block
the blazing hard truth.
So I can really feel what we do to each other,
what we obscure of each other,
and try to change.

I’m going the other way,
the feminine way,
the connecting way.
Yes I’m going the other way.


 

Light Loving Plant

I have a plant.
It’s maroon leaves open to the light,
glowing translucent.
They perch on thin wiggly stalks,
delicate.

They were withering, dying,
on the table in my room.
I moved the struggling three stalks,
unknowing and hoping,
to the windowsill.

There are many now thriving
while more push through,
bathing and rejoicing in the light.

At night their leaves close gently,
resting.

Old Western Cemetery

I want to tell you about a space
of birdsong oasis.
I carry it throughout the day after I leave
as I trudge past roaring cars, rushing.

I want to tell you about where the trees hug close
overarching, encircling.
Where life natural teems for all
in this tattered, cluttered city.

I want to tell you about a secret surprise
nestled next to the clogged roads.
Oh old Western Cemetery, I carry you deep and close
because you light my walks, you light my days.

The Time will Come

The time will come,
the time of warm connecting. 

We’ll be in and out of each other’s houses,
breaking bread, kids running riot,
squeezing everyone in for movie or games nights.
We’ll be talking from our souls,  
giving each other comfort, hugs and touch,
without doubt, without hesitation.

The time will come,
where the dark bubbling anxiety
humming in the background
will flow down the gutter – away, gone.
Instead we’ll go to Filey,
on a hot day, sun blazing,
crowd on the beach with happy folk, free, jostling,
riding on the waves,
cool water caressing.

The time will come when we head on the train,
see our beloveds, our homes,
hug them tight,
talk, our bodies close, spreading our germs,
and we won’t care, we won’t even think about it,
we won’t have to worry,
it won’t matter at all.

Yes, the time will come,
the time of warm connecting.

New Years Day 2021

A sadness seeps in on New Year’s Day, 
the Christmas lights glare discordant, clashing.
We clear the brightness away, rhythmically sweeping,
unveiling the bare and barren. 

You talk of our garden,
of taking broken and disused things,
and making them new:
chairs and a fire pit.

You talk of finding plants
that will give to the natural,
to the creatures
who share our home.

A slow quiet hope unfolds on New Year’s Day,
glowing
fragile and expectant. 

Candles Burning

Our candles burn bright; luminous, inviting, 
in our grate,
while Cave cries into the dark void, 
into the tangled mystery. 

Outside the darkness swirls and descends,
mocking chaos, unjust trampling,
while our candles burn bright
in our grate.

Food in Winter

Today we went for a winter walk, 
the sky blue with threatening clouds. 
Our goal was gelato and chips.

Through the park the squirrels were nibbling
their winter stores,
blackbirds and tits flitting
in the berry bushes.

Walking back, licking out ice cream,
our hands are red with cold,
quickly picking our chips, growing tepid.

We pass again the squirrels and birds,
filling themselves too
with their winter food.