Monday, 14 September 2009


Understand - my ego is huge as the universe,
but more fragile than egg shells and butterfly wings.
So if you love me, tell it loud
for me (and all the world) to hear.
Declare it on each breath,
as many times daily as your heart
pumps it around your being,
so I can take your words
and weave a gossamer cloak of reassurance -
a trembling shift, fine as mist
but stronger than a knight's steel shell,
made so because you spoke it.

If you have affection, show me clear
as my cat who, chest rumbling joyful
at the sight of me, brushes love firm with her
fur-fuelled greeting. Pads paws to toes, knees, face,
and when I lay,
assumes my back as her throne,
lazes regal, from my shoulders to waist,
her demonstration that she owns me
just as well as I do her.

If you love me, love, then testify.


I awoke, with my mouth dry
from dreams I had writ
as my waking mind slept
and my sleeping mind, adept,
created realities of worlds where clouds shone and trees
wove shelters above us, as crimson skies wept.

I awoke with my tongue swollen tight,
heavy with the words I had uttered unaware;
tales that I no longer recall,
But that burned as they left their home in my heart.
The memories, my own, merged with the world's,
demanding an audience, compelling a teller.
Ignorant upon waking,
my tongue fell still.

I awoke, beyond tired
from the miles I had trudged
in my bed. Travelled continents unchartered
creating, in my own, a cartographer's dream;
lands whose names inspire deserts and oceans
and the flaws in smoky cystal-cut glass,
each a glimpse of the Garden, perhaps.
Melting on waking,
as all proper dreamscapes must.

I awoke and lay, prone,
waiting for the dreams to return.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009

For a friend


I saw you stand tonight
at a bus-stop, all nonchalant, so straight;
not even proud, just natural,
and the idea of a stick was laughable,
that wheelchair some half-imagined nightmare
no association with that faultless posture.

I heard you speak tonight,
not to me, but regaling some crowd
of friends with your treatise on that album
by the Arctic Monkeys (remember?).
Languid, but by choice,
your speech broken only by your laughter.

I saw you write tonight,
sat hunched at your machine,
your brow a field of furrows - focused, not pained.
And you produced reams,
covered my landscape effortlessly,
impatient for the space to fill with each new passage.

I see you smile, not to chide,
but gently mock my childish fancy.
And maybe it is only fantasy,
but I believe it real -
I saw it tonight.