Brockenhurst
You can only discover the difference Between a meadow and a marsh When you take the first step into the grass And discover what lies beneath it. The hidden, ephemeral, seasonal damp. I have two strong girls beside me And it drives me to show off; I am the first to go. Mud sticks to the toes of my boots and I sink a little with each step, With each calculated move across the field. I set my fears aside and run To the edge of the wild stream, Bubbling and rushing with no boundary. I look into the brown water and Find that I have no reflection Amongst the constant movement. I wave back to my girls, brave girls rambling to meet me, And I shout to them, Telling them, I have found buried treasure.
Wisdom (Teeth)
I am sitting in the branches of a twisted tree, Held up by the laughter of a godforsaken creature More commonly known as “you”. (We all know this one; or someone like it.) I was dragged from my classroom By that seagull’s bark of a sound. (The grinding and clenching of teeth.) I am half-tempted to let myself fall Because this stopped being fun years ago, (I thought it might correct itself over time) But you’d catch me by the wrist And you’d leave me hanging there for the rest of the afternoon. (It probably goes without saying, but whatever you do, avoid this one) You may have chosen your own name (Another fancy word for a not very fancy problem) But you forget that we are all self-made of broken china, (Porcelain and composite shells) And we know what you mean when you threaten to jump. In three years I might not even know you, (A rift, a fracture, our hundredth disagreement) And I hope you never have to splinter anyone else Just to sharpen your edges.
Colour in Natural Fibre
just around the corner is a wonderful memory i’ve treasured; the story of late night, fleece lined, natural warmth. a fleeting seasonal highlight, equally comfortable between the covers as wandering the countryside. press pause. the secret genius dissolves in acetone; the singer and songwriter, we catch up with them tonight on an autumnal pilgrimage before the storm strikes they were required to wait, nervous, a few weekends ago; savour the calming music, stoke up the fire. cold blooded but cosy, gathered around a source of light, warm on the coldest day are any of you secretly the same, i wonder?
Flight of the dragonfly 