They weave and dive,
manifest what our minds require of them,
heavy is our hold on them,
our salvation and our reckoning,
they pay the ultimate sacrifice,
act, when words will not suffice.
There’s is a bonded folly,
they go where secret lovers shouldn’t,
delve into souls, dig and scrape
at papery layers beneath.
They pull and clasp and cling,
hold body to wall, pin to hole,
draw love to lips.
They are the sum of us,
an extension of our requisite desires
grooved palms, open like flowers
they reach both out and in.
Because there’s always second,
and some play the role with ease,
fall into place, the right-sized nail,
content to be the sidekick
in their own monotone script.
But this one
sought out different clothes,
scrambled out beyond the page,
made her voice louder, her lines longer,
went in search of colour.
The wind nuzzles
For we need the sustenance of trees
the wisdom of that which took time to build
the strength to stand through gruelling weather
the giving of shelter
the reaching forth of buds to the sun
the elegance of asymmetrical form
A shifting sleight of hand
dances across the horizon,
beading the trees,
draping all in silvery, fine-spun silk.
Stretching into the distance, the mist floats.
A forgotten notebook of stories,
it conceals its secrets within.
We scale your stone shell,
feel for grooves and gaps,
trace fingers gently,
lay feet across your curved, cracked slab,
we follow lines that softly shape
creating the fissured patterns of your back,
we are sculpted by your fragile face,
bent to the beauty of your graceful carapace
There’s movement outside the window,
a hum against the background song
a busyness belonging to those whose day has already begun.
She rises, walks avenues of trees,
high rises on both sides
and a pavement of leaves at her feet,
she steps through a doorway of rhododendrons,
the traffic buzzes and swerves above,
the call of a woodpecker crosses her path.
A flash of green and then red.
And she stops.