February 2009
Just trying things out.
Room tidied, books away. The sleep warm covers folded, Hospital cornered. Faded orange hangs in the air, Clings and cloys. Jazz tumbles out of the stereo, Sax tripping over cornet, Pulled along by zebra keys. Dead trees dance along, Branches tremble across the window. Insistent rhythm, insistent tapping. Out of synch. Out of synch. Death cold covers, corners unmade. Fading orange clings to the...
1 tag
Sheffield General
She was born blue and there were crocuses near the front porch. There are just a few snowdrops peeking out from behind the fallen leaves and sunshine tentatively drifting from a broken cloud. Outside the air is chill and crisp. But she was born blue and little fingers that should have curled under her chin, did not, and seeing her sleeping i think only of February.
1 tag
Shoes in a dirt road/Only the Dead have seen the...
There are shoes lying empty in the dust filled road a shell hole tied with a shoe lace. Long abandoned, cracked, blistering bare feet bleeding eyes bleeding tears. No-one wearing shoes anymore the child in the yard or the mother cooking dad working, walking to and fro. There is a shoe. Lying dead, ahead in the dust filled road. A small hand fisted under a chin and open eyes staring but not...
1 tag
Russian Tea
I drink my tea black. Like the Russians. Those poor men trapped below. Wondering when they would hold The sugar between their lips. Blue with cold, but they can’t see in the dark. I imagine the water rising Around them as the samovar boils.
1 tag
Postcard
I sit on the beige floor, and watch as the blue men worship at the white altar. I see the colours blue on white, My hat with my brown coat. I am not allowed to see their face, it is not theirs for me to see. I do not understand the cold. I can only sit in the sun. I watch as the curved world bends inwards, towards the sun trapped in a white wardrobe.
1 tag
John Masefield Cries
I am a sailor’s daughter but I do not burn to lick salt from my lips or crack it powdering from my lashes. I feel no sense of symphony at a gull’s sad chorus. I tremble in the cold on the dock on the quay at the harbour. I toss and turn as keel rolls to hull and port sways to kiss starboard. There is no safety there for me no deep connection with the depths where dead men lay and moan...
