The Missing Light

Bring that great storm of you

and drive away these bats of melancholy

that swoop and flutter around

my lonely head.

For I have found

that spun gold hair

is no deterrent to darkness.

Pruning

I have been cutting out dead wood,
pulling out all that is dry and rotten.

Some pieces crumble in my hand,
some need a sharp blade, to cut
through wiry sinews.

I am letting in air and light,
penetrating the dark centre.

Branches, weaved and twisted.
They've been cocooned that long
they have forgotten how to breathe.

My fingers are creating space,
leaving only what is good wood.

Hands cut and scraped,
I step back and observe
the transformation.

A deep breath.
My work is done.

Love All . . .

(Another one written for The Sunday Whirl prompt which gives twelve words weekly for participants to use in a poem. I enjoy these prompts so much as they seem to lead me to create stories that would never have arisen without them. Here's the latest. . . )


The shaft of light was no accident.
The shimmering halo
it cast around your
beautiful head,
was fitting.

We would chat.
Volleys of tumbling words,
batted carefully back and forth
over the cumbersome net
of our politeness.

Occasionally the motion slowed.
We would shift uncomfortably
in our seats, eyes averted.
And you would look outside,
at the faceless passers-by.

Watch them,
strolling from shop to shop.
Arms full of their baggage,
that was always so much
smaller than ours.

A strange silence
would descend over us,
like a great blanket woven
with longing, and all that we
couldn't, shouldn't, say.

Then I would jostle my papers,
move my chair, clutch at straws.
Until, like a great white bird
taking flight in a black sky,
your gaze would return to me.

And the dangerous dance
we were participating in,
would continue. While we
pretended that it really
didn't mean a thing.