Sylvia Clare


Wouldn’t it be wonderful
if whales lived in the clouds,
if when on cloudy days
we could simply look upwards
to watch then surfing and leaping 
around above our heads.
We wouldn’t need to go whale watching 
on rough tossed  seas but stay at home 
in our armchair and watch 
their amazing forms cavorting 
through the heavens, offering us
delight, where now we only have birds.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful
if you could book local owls
to come and hunt your own patch
when an infestation of voles and mice 
are eating your winter crops too
and you simply want some left for you.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if nature 
bowed to our whim and fancy, 
did as we asked, making us the gods
of our own domains. Could we ask wisely?
could we be trusted to see the bigger picture,
to enjoy and accept things as they are.
That whales need to live peacefully,
freely and unmolested in our oceans,
voles need to eat our peas and survive too, 
and we need to learn to live alongside
all nature without desire to kill or control.
We are after all merely another species.


Hello moon, yes it really is me again,
your regular insomniac worshipper.
I’m standing here with my mug of tea 
tilted towards you, so you could jump
into it if you so choose. But you won’t.
Why so distant always though?
I wake and greet you almost every night.
I am loyal in my adoration, even though 
you so often hide from me, dancing with 
seven veils, conceal your voluptuous form. 
Flaunting your presence, never entertaining 
a personal touch. Why so far away?
Go on I dare you, jump down now 
into my mug. Its content is warm, smooth,
will give you a soft landing, a gentle plash, 
warming your cold skin, moulding your contours.
We will be together, wandering through 
moments until dawn, when you 
disappear into your larger body of water, 
the ocean, where I watch you most nights 
slowly slip into. Why is the ocean so much 
more hospitable than my mug? 
Come jump with me beloved moon, 
come visit your friend, I am just here.


What is enough?
So there is no room for more,
a surfeit, a bounty hoarded,
a bulwark against subsistence or death.
Love perhaps, too little?
Can we have too much?
Replaced so often  
by addictions, isolation, food.
To know love 
one must understand 
what love is not.
To have enough 
one must know 
enough in one’s heart
To know enough 
one must understand 
not enough, 
for others and self. 
Compassion means reaching out 
to support those others
who have yet 
to understand enough. 
The tragic billionaires, 
the sad hoarders 
of more than enough
still locked into lack
‘I must have more 
or I will not be me,
I will be nothing’.
Perhaps no one told you, 
you were enough 
the moment you were born, 
took breath, made your 
first infant sounds,
when your needs 
were so simple. 
Then you were enough,
but love, connection, 
perhaps that was never enough
an omission, concealed by wealth
your mental illness for life,
there is never enough for you.
But I had that too, never enough.
except it was I who was not enough
not good enough, not wanted, 
and yet ‘enough’ found me.
Healed me, held me in its arms 
allowed me to know
I am enough
I have enough.

Sylvia Clare is a memoirist and poet whose themes are based on the natural world, mindfulness and human relationships and emotions. She lives with her husband in a small village on a small island and writes as a passion, almost as much of a passion as her gardening and beekeeping. She also spends time swimming on the local beaches all year round and is determined not to lose her marbles as she gets older. The idea of not being active and creative is her only real fear in life. Life is her inspiration, her own and those of other people. Nowadays she has chosen to mostly self-publish so she can present her writing on her own terms. Poetry reading is my favourite activity first thing in the morning, shared with her husband and over that first wonderful mug of tea. She is always on the look-out for new poets.

Sylvia Clare MSc. Psychol – Medium

Flights, Issue Three, December 2021