Before long we settle to silence.
Together but alone, skaters on a lake,
lost in the beat of it, the hawk and the trowel,
in our own triplet rhythms
        the scoop scrape smooth of it.
Spiders slip from the straw, generously
leave no footprints in the lime, moulded
to closeness without perfection, enough
to be secure without losing shape of it,
it would be nice to live this way,
I think.

Driving home, my blisters sing.
Doubt starts to dry on me, like
the chalky flecks flicked clinging to my face,
my jeans,
the fibres of my oldest fleece
         Was it alright, what I did?
         Will it hold?
At the back door, I shed it all, step
into the warm, like something
new.

A rock a cleft a fortress a space a
shelter, retreat, a hiding place, you
say to me, a voice through the storm
choked with the hardness of rain: Come

​

There is a place by Me.

​

A glitter, a drop a wetness, a breath, a
respite, a dew drop that kisses the earth
I am a cracked mouth of dust and fine ash
but you hold out your hands; flesh to flesh

 

See the marks on Me.

​

A grasping a longing a door closed behind
a beating of hands, an anguish defined:
a pattern, an ache, a promise to break
and all the shards- thorn sharp- are
held by your words I will never forsake.

​

A thousand cuts burn a thousand flames.
Hold my pain. Breathe on me. show me again:
The oasis. Your side. Sweet milk and rejoicing.
Rejoicing the colour of singing.