Our flight

(By Gub, 21st of January 2024, Hereford)

The inner journey 

Is just that -

So rumination is best left

To its own inertia

Progress

Lies in the outer worlds 

Of falling leaves 

and russet trees

No passage 

Sailed is entirely solo,

Even the wind that haunts

A friendless crossing 

Once Blew through populated seas

Hauntings

happen

when

Memories and souls

Reunite

The haunter's power

lies in evoking 

What the haunted has

Lost..

What tarnish

Can be lifted 

By a light

Rub of the lamp

The luminesce 

Of a past love

Aroused - 

And flames 

Reignited

Around 

The shared  story -

Recall with 

Vigour and all imaginative might

That great surging forth

The height of the waves,

The thrill of those white crested

Beacons,

The energy of the seas ocean

Hurling us up towards 

The shimmering 

Sun

And above the endless cycling of the tides,

Our flight 

From grief...

Like Christmas Morning

(By Sil, 24th of January, 2024, Hereford)

a candle in the autumn sea

love is a child clasping a leaf 

under flaming sycamore trees

at home, she peels off every garment

sleeps naked, curled up on the kitchen floor

exuding the sensuality of 

a summer day at the beach

her skin has the appeal

of fresh snow on a hill


a canvas for the gentle brushstrokes of your fingers

she will pucker up to receive your kisses

and wipe them off

love knows the rule of return and re-entry

that snowdrops

will eventually break through icy ground


that a poem is not just for Christmas,

when you arrive, defeated,

an old hound

that lost the fox's trail

she’ll make you feel 

like Christmas morning

and when you’ve made your bed in the guest room

love will always call your name

for she knows that 

although you hide

you always want 

to be found 

Knife

(Gub, 24th of February, 2024)

Life's a knife

Sharp as tatara steel,

Indifferent to time,

shredding;

years 

It's slicing motion turns 

calendars to 

Tick-a-tape

Un blunted, 

But for the dreams 

That escape 

The shining blade

and arise 

Uncut, 

As bold as any daisy 

That escape the scythe's

Toil... 

Juggler

(6th of July 2024, Sandler's Wells)

you perform your best stunts

the woman in the front row 

withholds smiles

close enough to see your fingers curling 

on the edge of that next straw hat 

you briefly caught and released

not close enough to smell the sweat 

streaming underneath the shimmering leotard

contortionists sinew 

with a pirouette, the acrobats

conceal that moment 

when they have stepped into the wings 

and the masks come off 

arms relax

they don't owe us their true faces or their slumped torsos

this is not a ticket to their souls 

later I see you at the edge of the stalls

folded under a metal ladder 

in your black cloak of anonymity 

to your audience

you exist only in a pool of light 

crossing the fourth wall 

my eyes search out yours 

I want you to know that 

I have spotted you

my watchfulness separates me from 

those who look but cannot see

in my world, I move like a film

but my audience only sees in snapshots

they want to see you teeter

but they don't want to see you fall - they say

sometimes I make a gesture

as if I am laying down a sharp sword

like I could fight with my bare hands 

or not fight at all

when you stepped out of the limelight 

you gave up on the applause

has the audience left 

or will there be another curtain call 

in this auditorium and at funerals 

I am always sat on the last pew 

they sing

lord of hopefulness, lord of joy 

but I'm outside, following a child 

amongst the graves