budding pink in the streaming sun,
little faces curl away from the light.
but, in time, they creak open,
peak out, ponder on the other flowers,
dip to the side to offer a murmer to their neighbour.
In time, they open their vulnerability,
watch the branches they hang on,
the leaves that give them light,
the hard wood that lift them to the sky.
There are other flowers too,
other little petals opening
and we are the same -
budding from the same green pod
from the same roots.
We span so wide across the sky,
across the tapestry of the world,
and soon - when the time is right-
we will slip into the air.
we may no longer be under the same branches
but we share the same air
and we remember the strong roots
that held us close then let us go
not to fall but to fly,
into the bright light that no longer blinds us.
but a month of unpaid work experience and OUP = awesome but also not awesome because i’m supposed to be raising money for China and LeakyCon depending on flexibility might have to miss the friday
ahh decisions
In light of the snow
And the erratic boiler
That finally gave in to slumber,
And, in its passivity,
Did its best to freeze us all;
We thought it best
To stumble down the road,
For heavy smells from
Densely clanking heaters
To try not to curl up against.
To trip through the flurry of cold snow,
Into the flurry of hot water
Upon my back, in the unknown glass box
That gives me a niggling awareness
That this is no longer my home,
- I remember my little wet feet
Trying not to slip –
Even now I am still careful,
Of the mirror, larger than before,
And me larger in it.
Careful, not to see myself
In the carpet and the gaps in the walls
Where photos used to hang.
But I cannot escape this mirror
That slathers itself across the wall,
Bringing me out of the flurry
And trying to catch my eye.
- as for the rest –
- the little bits of paper – tightly scrunched in secrets –
The few books
- Black Beauty – do you recall the harsh breathing, almost ignored?
- The Penguin Book of Seaside Wildlife – a crab snatching at my fingers – until it’s pincers broke.
- The Hobbit – read on the hill where we threaded together – before the wind blew.
- Spines unsnapped – words unwrapped –
- and two dresses hanging by their necks –
One little and blue
Pulling across my thighs
Where it once tucked under my toes to tumble me down
- I don’t remember it ever truly fitting –
Another, white, that we opened the spine of,
When it constricted my breath,
Like the squeezing of the church organ
And the squeezing of my eyes – shut.
You can have them.
I have no need for them.
Nor do you have need for me,
Now you have your own
To pin straight back
Into boyish shape
Before they morph again in the sunlight
As we always do.
In hopefulness,
the light shines brightest,
through the cracks in the wood,
squinting in the darkness,
for the flutter of dust
bringing life to the dead,
and hope to the shadowy dancers.
anyone willing to quickly read an work experience application email?
“i never really know what to do when girls say their legs are cold because upper half you can give them your coat but am I supposed to hug your legs as you walk?”
It is a humming first,
A warm hum of silk white pages,
And thicker ones
That bring away a yellow smell,
And neat little sidenotes in blue ink,
That murmur a little extra,
A secret interpretation
To draw out the strings of your mind.
Then there’s the whispering,
Of metre and rhyme
That wash across the page,
Two quiet rounded letters unwounded by age.
There’s a trickle of something extra,
That draws a picture of a red hot sun
And a grain of tickling sand against your skin.
A hushed moment
of quiet declaration,
Where you scramble for a pen
To scribble it out again and make it yours.
Then there are those that must
Be said aloud.
Or ink stained into your hand,
Emblazoned
across your nerve-endings.
And behind it,
The cascade of shouts
That dare to flap open
Broken spines
And gasp for air.
How can you hear it
If you see only the silence?
If you read only the lines
And refuse to listen?
I saw discarded daisy-chains,
Upon the dusty ground,
And when I past I heard a song
Of long forgotten sound,
And in its pale white faces
Mirrors blind my sight
With long forgotten memories
In pale translucent light:
And green twined fingers
Are falling against stone,
Little holes in stalks leaving
Chainlinks all alone.
I saw discarded daisy-chains,
As I blew away the dust
And, stopping, saw the dancing light
Sing songs to heal the rust.
