Warm Arms

She pressed her tiny back into the hard window frame. The curtains shivered across the sill and outside, a shadow tree whipped a wild dance against the copper sky.

Dark crept slowly towards her, a hovering cloak swallowing the last glowing drops of honey. Dark sliding gently around her slim shoulders, a mask that faded lines and washed away the colour with fine ash. A dark that suffocated and whispered, stretching deep inside.

Sitting hunched, already she could feel the gentle rhythm of the night, its breath warm in her ears the closeness of the secret place that held her rigid in its grip.

She knew the sound she strained to hear, over the restless breeze, over deafening silence, over rivers of words racing through her, each tendon stretched, nipped, waiting, waiting…..

Sleep hung like a terrible presence, heavy, pressing, insistent it called, faithless in its promise of oblivion. Velvet warm, like her mother’s arms, arms that dried like powder at a touch with soft eyes that fell back into the dark.

She listened, there it was a voice crying, somewhere distant the echo of footsteps always a little ahead. Round her head floated words never spoken, a last chance always in the distance a faint promise unfulfilled.

She watched as the door slid quietly open, soft grey moonlight made a ghost of her mother, with tears softly falling and lips moving words unspoken, whispered only to the night.

Her breath caught in her throat, it was all longing for a soft caress, the kiss of warm tears, warm arms. It pressed her forward right to the edge, the edge of the sill. She willed her hand to reach out, pale in the grey moon shining, legs so heavy, wooden like the cold stiff lip of the sill.
Shrinking back into the shadows she held close the dream of warm arms.

She could have called out, nearly did, the words almost hovering on her lips, then she remembered……….

Her mother’s eyes held no warmth, deep water floating slowly through her.

What did she see out there, out in the dark, dark sky?

And sleep, sleep would never come again or dreams. She stirred restless on the sill, dreams she remembered dreams, dreams of her mother’s tears on a summers evening where dark had crept slowly towards her. An evening so warm the window was just a little open and the breeze that hung sweet and heavy with roses.

She had only leaned a little on the glass and seen darkness pressed hard against the wood, cool on her face. Pressing forward to make out the faded colours, close to the edge of the sill. And dark, dark like a cloak had swallowed her.

She fell so gently so delicate like a doll she thought, the breeze silent and such small drops of warm dark blood.

How she longed for those warm arms and last words unspoken, silent tears on the windowsill. And now, now she would stay here forever but no-one it seemed would know.



For Gulnaz

He left on Wednesday
After kissing her sweetly
She didn’t see it coming
He never said goodbye
She stayed in the dark
He had never liked the sun

His small white face
Laying still on the pillow
Tubes kept it warm
But even to her
It was clear he’d gone

He sent her messages at first
Green had always been
Her favourite colour
He left them in her shoes
Green raffia
Delicate runes
Like the veins of an old man

She thought them leaves
Scattered by the wind

He sent her more
Cradled in the brown
Gnarled twigs of his tears
Peacock feathers moss
Emeralds forest floors
Whole galaxies of green
The size of daisies

She looked sadly in the mirror
And brushed them from her hair

Each night he called her
Drawing shadows on the lawn
Alone in the darkness
Leaving her gifts
The last said he was sorry
And that he couldn’t stay


A mixed bag

It's been a busy week catching up with everything after the holidays, and I am soon off again for a long weekend with my mum. Just to Whitby but it should be nice perhaps I'll do some painting, its been a while. So for the time being some more poems. The last one feels like it comes from a children's story, mabey I will write one.Rock pool is a shape poem and got first prize at Harrogate writers Circle and the first one was a holiday poem.


Busy temple ants sift the clogging sod
Dappled armoured industry
Flesh takes its ease
Rough yet alive
Sensation its own reality
Ribbons of wild garlic
Paint tongues of sweet sickly caramel
Among the grasses that pinch and prod

Rock Pool

Coral knights about the rocks
Mark sideward march towards the sea
As tiny stars scale tower blocks
Beyond a carmine feather tree
Sly tinker, hermit scuppers dust
Into its jet and jasper box
Blasting iron butterflies
Who picket in the raging froth.

Po Kalo the Monkey King

In the inky cloak of jungle
Lurks a shadow devil
Po Kalo the monkey king
Calls all to his revels

King of the fallen city
Where his wild companions play
Mocking the men who used him
And took his lands away

Theft is his provider
Mischief his best friend
Since he cursed his brothers
To violence and revenge

Wearily at sunrise
Their ranks are called to fool
Capering for tourists
Scavenging for food

Tempers are explosive
Skilled clowns they play the crowd
Awaiting the sign for mutiny
Veiled Malevolent and foul

High on a shattered pillar
A tiny manic form
Po Kalo the monkey king
Stirs up his silent storm


Home Again

Well home again, home again, to inside plumbing and walls without zips,
grey skies and drizzle. Boo-hoo! Still looking forward to catching up with everyone,
for now some poems and hopefully some pictures to follow


Moon milk festoons
The dark shoves a man in
Gravel rattles
Sun flowers

Close Up

The patter of the base line
Taps the foot of the golden boy
Who once clasped my thumb
With hands the size of walnuts

I smile at his blundered French
Eyes locked in the slender girl
Neither speak the others language
But both understand

Leaning across

He breathes her like expensive
Perfume, a gesture, both desperate
To look cool, teasing-clowning
Held rigid

in another universe

Almost a kiss apart, they wake
As if caught, Children again
She smiles and steals his hat
A lumbering puppy and a dancing gazelle


Holidays at Last

Well we're off to Brittany, camping, should be fun
brother Steve has kindley agreed to baby sit
rabbits cats dog and fish. Brave man, will be
writing lots I hope and back in time to have a
rest and plan work-shops for Autumn term.
Have fun everyone, I look forward to
catching up when I return.

Love All