Beneath me I feel the coarsened grass
The hollowing bedrock, a flame
Stirred by the mixing air plays through my skin. 

That is no pagan view-
This  mountain is older than holy, 

I see that I am his idol,
a  place for elements to play.

Quiet bubbles gather round the heat
like people in the streets
before a riot.

Soon
some of us will hear a click
and others screaming.

When they arrived
housewives brought cups of tea and
assiduously dished out the good crockery
on the streets;

But not for long.

When someone was shot
the women brewed tea so strong and sweet
we could feel our teeth rot.

When your thoughts are shaped in angles,
and your heart is a rising floor,
and your body wishes on a seventh sign from somewhere,
that so easily slips into eight, nine and twelve
And back on through.
So that’s how it goes again
Strangeness takes familiarity by the throat,
and won’t let go til it’s breath is gone.
Music taunts.                     The television gloats
Pages of books feel slippery on the eye,
everything claims nothing as it’s bastard own.
God captured in a razorblade glint.
God captured in living ritual.
God a ferral belief,
once let go, it bolts from the door

Someone at the table laughs from the back of her neck.
Someone else captures light through a smile.
The rest of the pub seems to roll in time,
while you’re busy constructing the same thought,
out of the remains of the last one.
Knowing it’ll do you no good, it’ll do you good.
Knowing it’ll never work, it’ll work.
Like collecting water in cupped hands,
and when the conversation reaches on,
You’re left holding onto the spaces between the words
That never were.

But you watched him his light stumble,
like a drunken man across the black space sky,
from a tree branch shadow bedroom.
But you read the book you’d found by the light of her only moon,
so that every page was blank,
And the beds looked full. Like our childhood selves were sleeping there

So when the television gloats, the radio boasts,
the book’s words seem to fall through your eyes,
there’s a simple trade that has to be made,
like a beggar your flushed guilt gives in to every time.
A horrifying beauty this place.
A horrifying beauty this world.
So then, life is a heavy hearted desire,
and if they would only speak,
it would stop you listening to yourself,
and you have to admit you’ve been scraping your skin here for an ending,
Cause there’s only ever a start to an old beginning you already knew.

I heard your footsteps amidst cerulean columns,
You walked with poets and dreamers.
Temples with Borealis banners, sconces lit by suns.
Logic, precision, science
That you carried to our ears.

I heard your footsteps on bronze pathways,
You walked amidst Fibonacci flowers.
Golden fields guaranteeing Dionysus days.
Labour, power, strength
That you carried to our ears.

I heard your footsteps under mountains,
You bathed in molten rivers.
Subterranean skies lit by quartz constellations.
Love, passion, sensation
That you carried to our ears.

Now we have forgotten,
We speak but don't listen.

What would we say to each other
after all this time?
"How is the family?"
"How was the flight?"
I wouldn’t care a jot for the answers.
Would rather sit quietly,
holding your hand;
Relearn the curve of your smile
and start again.

Body battered, bruised and bloated
Hormonal tsunami surging
Irrational fears and nightmares
Post-partum premonitions
Yet my innocent babe lies sleeping

Demons await outside the door
Disease, debt, disappointment
A thousand hurts and stings
How shall I keep them at bay?
Yet my unworldly babe lies sleeping

Awesomeness of responsibility
Dawns in fogged maternal mind
And what of her mental agility?
How to tell if all is well?
Yet my contented babe lies sleeping

Pangs of self-doubt grip my soul
A lifelong duty of protection
Monitoring every inaudible breath
Each tiny stir and gentle murmur
Yet my perfect babe lies sleeping

Ill-prepared, inadequate, I,
My daughter’s tearful keeper-mentor
The path of my life irrevocably set ...
Then, love-rush overwhelms all trepidation
Hush, my beautiful babe is waking

I spied a lone seashell beneath my bed
A squat, brown, limpet-like cone
Baffled, I bent down to inspect
Grasping it in hope of hearing the sea
It turned to powder in my hand
Feeling: surreal

Creation of a nocturnal sand artist?
Or a runic sign left by dancing fairies?
Maybe a tiny tornado’s detritus?
So neatly piled and perfectly formed
And yet, the same timber hue as my bed
Feeling: ominous

‘Anobium Punctatum’ said ex-terminator
Common furniture beetle to you and me
Ate his way out after three years’ cosy feeding
Flew new-winged towards the light to find a mate
We found him dead and virginal on the sill
Feeling: tearful

Bore-dust vacuumed, Boron applied
My big sleigh bed was soon reclaimed
That night however I slept but little
So long had literary-sounding larva slept beneath
Wriggling, munching, growing, listening
Feeling: fearful

While I was breakfasting in bed, so was he
When I in slumber lay, he slept too
And listening to my love life all the while
Not exactly my kind of threesome
Not my usual choice of bedfellow
Feeling: violation

Beloved rosewood bed, Indian import
Sacred, pristine-sheeted womb of refuge
How extensively did he mine your heartwood?
And was he but a lone traveller from Madras?
Or do structure-weakening siblings burrow still?
Feeling: consternation

Get distracted by oxygen,
Drown the ghosts of a decade,
Speak litanies of love, build
Foundations from each other’s feet,
Find deities in human souls,
Blaze trails, draw straws for the stars,
Beam light through darkness, hear
Dreams and history in heartbeats,
Call one man armies into war,
Shake thunder from the sky, dance
And sing upon our birthdays,
Draw wit and brawn from turbulence,
Let laughter frequent and abide,
Turn sorrow to revelry,
Rejoice eternal friendship,
And a rare kindred existence.

We walked to the precipice.
Looking to the depths,
with a half-hearted jump.
Only to realise swimming was not an option...