All Blog posts
Recovery
Somewhere, possibly close, the kettle boils.
I am waiting for my insides to knit together
around an absence, watching petals a shade
off clouds emerge on phalanx thin branches.
Flower Moon
It's Easter and all the daffodils are screaming
at the awakening ground- "Lazy arsehole!"
"Good for nothing useless compost!"
Rhubarb cracks fresh bones as it stretches
towards a terracotta sky, body on new body.
The stillness you found among roadkill
and in the cold and muddy verges
has been shattered by sudden ferns.
We have read the skies like scripture.
Now is the time to live- breathless, unforgiving.
I hold my unnoticed, selfish serenity close,
feel it crack open, send out exploratory shoots,
mutate into this fragile yellow dream.
2023 March Input
For the first couple of weeks in March I was recovering from gallbladder surgery, so had a lot of time to read and reflect and watch things as I let my body knit itself together. (I'm back to full health now.) As a result, it's been quite a rich month, with lots to recommend. Here's what I read and consumed in March:
Fever
I woke up in a thousand different realities
simultaneously, head stuffed with cloves/
industrial by-products and waste/
a single sustained tinnitus buzz.
Liminal Spaces
Almost
and yes, I still gathered branches,
and yes, I still wore my woollen coat,
but it was unbuttoned, no scarf
2022-23 Winter Input
I've been meaning to do this for a couple of months, but during that time Christmas has come and gone, then I've packed to move house, moved to the countryside and prepped for minor surgery. So no wonder I haven't had time to put thoughts to paper. I'm settled into our country house now and the quiet is welcome. This is what I've put into my brain from December 2022 to the end of February 2023.
Lights
The sky and each moment expands
as I observe it. I've forgotten the season
but the single layer of skin on my fingers
remembers. I am an uncertain brittle being,
standing under the galaxy, watching your sighs
form the briefest of clouds. A distant owl calls.
I'm not prey, not tonight.
Fly Away
I am hauling all our rugs, books,
house plants, our glasses wrapped
in bubble wrap and old duvets ,
all our memories neatly boxed up,
every object we own all jumbled,
carrying from the borrowed van
into our new home. I am bending
at the knees. I am judging the structural
stability of cardboard to ensure
our horde will stack. Tessellation
is essential. My shoulders radiate
like embers. Your nerves are glowing
filaments of thin tungsten.
The Revolution Will Biodegrade
