Aim High

DSC_0421Even the smallest tree
will become taller
when it reaches for the stars

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Heavy Metal

The steel in your eyes,
sharp as a Japanese blade,
captures my thoughts
in its mirror.

Wielding your words
as a hefty sword
you slice through
my diaphanous centre.

I stand dripping and distraught
whilst your iron core
remains unmoved,
unrepentant.

And though I feel a flinty spark of anger
I cannot melt a missing heart.
For you are nothing
but a tin man.

 

Merry Christmas

Christmas 11 063

They don’t tell you about
the dark and drizzly dawn,
or the slippery grey slush
should it ever really snow at this time of year.
Nor the hideously over-crowded shops,
or that early-waking panic
that there’s still so much to do.

I wish that it was over.

Neither do they mention
the endless frustrating wrapping
when the sticky tape sticks
only to itself,
the ribbons tie you in knots,
and you find that every single gift
that you bought is
oddly shaped.

I’ll be so glad when it’s over

And did they tell you how
difficult it is to dust decorations?
Or how the tree starts to droop
and drop needles
and baubles to the floor,
and the poinsettia starts to die,
way too soon.

It better soon be over

No-one said that we’d have
nothing to eat for a week
because all that food that
is crammed into cupboards
and covers the worktops
in the kitchen is
for Christmas’.

Oh, when will it be over.

Ah, but did they tell you of the unbridled joy of it?
The shredded un-wrapping paper wantonly strewn about the floor?
the mince pies and mimosas for breakfast?
The jolly music that you were so sick of yesterday?
The luscious smells of long roasting
permeating the festive rooms,
flavouring the laughter with anticipation?

The pulling of crackers?
Silly jokes and hats and clinking of glasses?
The sated sleepiness of afternoon,
watching Christmas specials,
then silly games in the evening
and staying up ‘til three
not wanting it to be over?

DSC_0508

Rage in old age

It always starts here
with a wrong word
that makes your skin prickle
and your hackles rise.
It was a thoughtless aside,
beneath the breath
a whisper of discontent
you shouldn’t have heard.

Yet with pursed lips
you broil and fester,
avoiding my eyes
by watching the distance
stretch out between us.
That which once was a hairs breadth
is now a snow filled rift.

We usually welcome silky silences.
The mute knowing of each other,
the glances and winks
touches and nods.
Our minds perfectly tuned
in harmonic melody.
Our own love language.

Now discordant and jagged,
I shrink from this quietness,
attempt a soothing sound,
offer my arms in submission,
allow the tears
and beg forbearance.
It was only a careless word.

I take up an old photograph
that sits on our sill.
A snapshot of a joyful time,
Champagne smiles
and clinking glasses,
so young in black and white
togetherness.

But still you stare ahead,
jaw set in defiance of compassion,
resisting the weakness of relenting.
But I glimpse the sadness
in your moist eyes.
Just the smallest notion
that the moment will soon pass.

So I make us some tea.