Wednesday, 7 June 2017


Sitting across,

you looked in my eyes,

wrote untrue words, drew


on me,

that I need to erase,

that warped our memories and


days and nights,

of knowing firmly, what I am,

in your mind, in your heart,

under your


and your hands

from someone precious,

and carried in your soul,

to someone who fills, gaps, alone,

not a constant

but an occasional thing;

feelings on, feelings off; like a

passing wasp’s sting that smarts,

intense for a while,

then fades and erodes

as a passionate smile between

those, I know,

light each others’

worlds; a momentary sparkle

of a diamond,

or a glint, of the pearl

I knew myself,

to be,

in your eyes,

until you were wearing this new

disguise that denies

all I felt, and yet see:

you are not, you are not,

what you’d have

me believe,

not just a taker, out to

deceive; who casts and reels

however he pleases for no reasons,


than he can;

that is not the measure of

the man that sits now

carving his name

on my heart;

he does it

just the same

as at the very start; when I know,

I carved mine on his too,

and slowly thereafter, neither

one of us moved without

holding the other…

…cradling them,

in their chest,

each day;

veiled and undercover

to protect what ignites in a look,

or a touch;

not nothing, at all, but far too much

to define,

or ever describe –

something we cannot help

but keep hiding,

like a heart,

drawn quickly, in the sand:

of me,

of  you,

this is all I have ever believed;

the only reasons I understand.

The Last Rose

She only wanted
to be loved like the last rose,
it wasn’t a lot to ask,
and she showed you exactly how
to love her; her present,
her future,
…her past,
it wasn’t any ability
that you lacked,
you were not incapable
of filling
unconventional cracks and the voids that she mentioned,

it was only that you didn’t
pay her enough attention, to learn all the
littlest things;

and so if you have never seen
her sing,
while she
cooks dinner,
never seen her spin around
and dance,
when she changes the sheets -
perhaps it is only
because you were asleep,
when she asked you to know her.
And if you wonder,
what she looks like
on a freedom-kissed beach,
or how strong she is whenever
she reaches,
the top,
of an arduous climb,
or what she wears,
on a lazy,
Saturday night…if you don’t know her,
with hair, tied, in a bun,
or soaked, and tanned, and wild,
a beating,
foreign sun,
perhaps it is because you never got done,
making her feel, like that
last rose:

…most beautiful and cherished and plenty…to you,
being whichever ‘her’,
she chose. 

Friday, 31 March 2017

Not All The Time

Something. Sometimes.
And then, not much.
Sometimes, reached for, and
sometimes, untouched, unspoken,
inconstant, undone...
sometimes, the moon,
...then pushed away
by the sun;
and yet;
and bringing,
only love,
never waxing, nor waning,
it fits
like a glove of
satin, a tender caress,
one hour: more
the next; less, than ever,
made small
footprints in a soul and a heart:
when it is not
in the warmth
of an honest embrace - when
it cannot, smile
and press it's face,
to the safety,
of a rhythmic chest...
breathing calmly, in a feather-bed
as certain
as the stars will shine...
to something
that need not
be defined.

Tuesday, 21 March 2017


In the twilight, I slipped back
between the sheets,
where I tried to re-enter
my precious sleep, in the empty
space I was expected to be, now that the sun
was rising. A deepening orange,
heated the horizon,
and victoriously, heralded day,
and I knew I was no longer
supposed to need,
all those creases, carelessly made -
I was supposed to pretend and turn away,
from that which I knew to be right, supposed to
see now, the fading night,
as something erased, by dawn. And it was not so
easy then to stay warm; amongst those illicit, untidy thoughts,
without some assurance
inside. I rolled and stretched; a chained sort of sigh;
buried my face and tried to hide,
as the light,
slid deft fingers between the curtains.
Only one thing was all too certain,
when I could bring myself, to draw them :
a crescent moon, hung stubborn, in the morning,
golden against the sky –
and loyally, it hung there ‘til lunchtime,
to remind me, that it
would remember, and keep,

the night.

Monday, 1 February 2016

If You Touch Me


go gentle, if you touch me,
today there’s too much to break,
don’t you see these cracks
crawling over
my face, like feathers,
all crumpled and slight? Go tender, if you touch me,
as though brushing starlight with your fingers,
and drawing it near, if you scold me, go quietly,
and whisper
for fear that I startle
too swiftly this day, though if your touch
offers safety,
I will want you;
...go careful,
but stay

and make this moment a shelter,
a home, a hide,
for I feel nought but a bird now,
so lost in dark night, and oh, so open,
to being eaten
alive, if you touch me,
say ‘precious’, say ‘shield’, for I give you all I beg,
all I borrow
and steal, that keeps me here,
in weakness, revealed,
with no lies to detect;
if you touch me, say ‘encircle’,
say ‘protect’, and I’ll listen, and I promise
to believe;

if you touch me,
don’t be too rough,
don’t pull me, don’t push me, don’t
this air and this noise is already harsh enough
to bruise, and to batter
and scrape;

please, if you touch me,
something like the truth on my skin:
that I am more than this moment;
this flaw;

that I am still everything.