remembered landscapes…

There are landscapes I have trodden. I keep them with me: a variety box of colours, continents, wonders carried home. I have mountains, rivers, oceans, dust deserts, rolled tight so as to travel well without crumpling.

On grey dark days I unlid my close-shut eyes and visit them, feel for them, and in those memories all is bright. They leave me breathless, beauty-struck and earth glad.

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these strange shapes…

Life has taken on strange shapes.

The nights are dust heavy, airless and weighted with whispers. I whisper too.

Nothing is private. Nothing unseen.

Early mornings shave out a space before I become a function.  In these spare moments I try to remember myself, to search out who I still might am be. I steal seconds, minutes, find a little life outside. I swap these eyes for others. Continue reading

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this is not an apology…

It is strange to write to you but somethings are still too sore to be spoken out loud and all the wrong words often end up written.

This is not an apology. What is done I would not have undone. Nothing is forever and, though our span was shorter than most, it was, and that was something sweet.

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being loved…

I found this post written on February 14th:

You asked me over for dinner yesterday, oddly formal, awkward smiling. I said yes without a thought, surprised you’d bother to ask in advance when we spend so many evenings sat alone together. Friends by default. Comfortable in convenience.

And then I wondered whether you wanted it to be a date… Continue reading

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imaginary countries…

She stirs the pot bubbling steam-hot on the stove and talks of home. Her words are broken, mine too, but we both speak longing fluently and that is understood.

We are split apart by class and culture, by the passport that lets me leave, but in the kitchen we are just women. There is no need for more or less. Continue reading

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the retreat…

Perhaps it is odd to speak first of this, after, but that’s what comes and why I came here, forest-found, so that I can let be the before.

I wake to tree sighs. The firs tell dawn stories two hundred years high above me, in whispers. I hear them and remember how to wonder.

Sunrise stretches feathered fingers up, curious to touch. Chill mists lie like soft down blankets on the earth till the light ripens, ebbing and falling in seconds’ seasons. Continue reading

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coming back again..

Words are willful when we would still them silent.

I’ve been too busy to listen, too tired to say,
And yet the poetry in my voice is rising, waking, coming back on round again.

I missed me. Its been too long since we’ve spoken.

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breaking bread…

The sun rises. Fire petals light the concrete tangle of bowed buildings pretty in pink. Blaze blooming back up to the sky.

It is hard to sleep when God is at your window and I wake, weary, 5 am reluctant, but awed to come back, to be born back to such a day. I tell myself sleep might just return to me, hide under sheets, but really I know it won’t.

Dreams-eyes rinse off in the bucket and then I’m up-risen, scarf wrapped and out into the dawning.

Cows graze nonchalantly on roundabouts, disregarding barbed wire. The sheep look a little lost. The chickens count claw, scrabbling for secrets, treasures turned up donkey muck. Nervous cats stand sentry, aloof on their upper ground. But I have the streets. This is my line between here and there.

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life lived with open windows…

I said I would not do this again, but words are just words. We both know that.

Life takes unexpected turns and it felt right. So I’m here. Another here, flown far from there. Living another life for a little while.

I can’t tell you where I am but I can still speak it, say it. I will try to show you what I see because maybe that will be truer than the truths I can’t tell you.

So there is this. Continue reading

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local boy…

I was having a bad day, ruffled as an indignant pigeon, pride-punched by too much filing and heart-hurt by all the other jobs I can’t seem to get. My angry shoes gave the pavement ‘what for’ as I carved my lunch break up the street, irritable and anxious wondering where there was to could get to.

The homeless guy on the pavement glanced my way. I dredged up a smile for him, for me, staving off guilt at not buying the leaf edged magazines he shuffled, awkwarder than I. I cornered into the shop next door, sailing hard and high on my thoughtless-thoughtful tempests of inner wind – poor me.

And then I heard my name said softly – looked back, wondered where. Went back, looking and saw him still there, saying my name like an apology, a sort of sorry softly spoken. Continue reading

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