Poetry

The Stranger in Us All

I should have said no
but thoughts of another evening
alone watching television
pushed me to yes.

The pub was warm,
wine pleasantly chilled
as our words mingled
with conversation around us.

Can you feel the spark?
he asked.
I nodded but felt nothing.

You’re easy to chat to
he said,
unaware I hadn’t said much.

He smiled,
shifted his hand onto my thigh.
I let it stay,
feeling the heat of his palm
through my linen trousers.

It was easy to read
where the night was heading,
so I poured more wine,
let him pay for dinner that tasted of nothing,
accepting the offer
of coffee at his place.


Broken Strings

Unwashed plates and mugs
clutter the tea-stained work top,
the bin is overflowing
and empty McDonalds cartons
carpet the kitchen floor.

Yesterday’s crumbs cling
to the grey hairs of his bushy beard
as he sits too close to the television
in a grubby, torn arran jumper,
and faded jeans
drinking Baileys from a cloudy glass.

Decay seeps through cracks in the plaster
despair whispers beneath the surface
but he is elsewhere
pushing square dreams
into round slots
bewildered when pieces of the puzzle
don’t fit together.


Your Days

The clouds are heavy in your eyes
they shape your world
into a dark tunnel
you struggle to crawl down.

I wish I could turn the light on for you
show that the sun, the moon
shine through your days.

If I could cede you the will to fly
how much happier you’d be
soaring towards the stars.

Maybe then you’d see me
waiting in the shadows.

This poem was written as a response to a photograph posted by a friend, Kapulco PhotoArt  on Spark


Fairie Pool

She steps barefoot
from the canopy of trees
into the glade
deep in the forest.

There’s fire in her fingers
sparking ethereal light
on the surface of the fairie pool
but her mind swirls black.

Slipping beneath surface warmth into
ice-blue depths that whirl
to the rhythm  of her thoughts,
she welcomes numbing cold on her skin,
the drowning darkness
that absorbs too bright colours
and cradling movements of water
rocking her to sleep.

Tonight, her dreams will die;
tomorrow she will surface, reborn.

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2 comments on “Poetry

  1. Having commented on your other poem, I had missed this here. What can I say? Thank you very much indeed and a delightful response (I now have two). I shall reference this on my Kapulco PhotoArt blog soon, if I may. Thanks a zillion, again. 🙂

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