A girl with a tired, sad face
looks down at her blank-eyed child.
I looked at the faces around me,
Stressed, depressed, spirits oppressed,
All were pale and grey.
At the stop by the supermarket
A boy, lithium imbalanced,
plunged up the steps in a rush,
yelling ‘Merry Christmas!’
at the top of his wildly filled lungs.
A modern Bob Scratchit, I thought.
They call them chavs these days.
I stumbled through the cold and ice,
my collar up against the chill,
when up ahead I saw a house
built of warm and honeyed wood
resting on a gentle hill.
A house within a wonderland, of frosted trees
and sparkling flakes of crystal snow,
with icicles, hung low.
Footprints there were sharp and clear,
along the paths the Robin takes.
I followed him along his way
and heard the voice of Jenny Wren.
A fire I saw within the hearth
and children’s laughter signalled then
that I am safe and home again.
nothing is carved in stone, they say,
time and weather wear all away
but some of us will remember
the words that were written there
and even the stone is aware
i wanted love to stay and grow
but wishing never made it so
the tides have turned
and now the river’s in full flow
the water only runs downstream
the consequences just sank in
the clouds have covered up my heart
as islands slowly drift apart
the land will flood
and i sit numb
The Hatter really loved sweet Alice
but Alice always thought him mad,
always did and always will,
so he’s gone back, under the hill.
He always thought it was prosaic
to keep both feet on the ground,
he’d rather be over or under it
and now he can’t be found.
He’s still in Wonderland.
Asleep in my arms, an angel,
or am I sleeping, in a dream?
The smell of her soft hair enfolds me,
drowns me, holds me,
emboldens me to think she’s real.
Deep in my dream she pushes, rolls me,.
A hot spark rushes,
entwines my spine,
a strong tender warmth, in the dark.
Every move she makes, a stroke,
a touch that tells me she is mine.
Her gripping thighs press hard against me.
My mind explodes. I’m on fire.
Our passion steams up the windows
and still desire doesn’t tire.
I love her in ways my words never tell.
Her breath on my neck, a bewitchment,
I’m spinning under her spell.
She is wild as rushing water,
she sweeps me home and away.
When the rapid falls are over,
she reaches out for again.
She is drenching rain.
She lays beside me,
slumbering in sensual rest,
contented beneath my hand.
I am her first dry land.
The snow outside is piling high.
White blankets wrap up the door.
now that I’m older,
all the young doctors
look like tender angels to me
when they are older
i wish them the blessing
of laughter and care lines
carved into their cheeks
the visions nightly gather
around my mother’s bed
she fears to lose the light
she huddles like a child
who needs a low lit lamp
and dreads the lullaby
she hides inside the story books
and keeps the bell at hand
her bedside charms are bastions
against that other land
the visions nightly gather
around my mother’s bed
she knows that all her visitors
are shadows of the dead
what can you say
when the words go way
and your muse rushes out of the door,
scared by the visions she saw?
you could always pretend
that thought has no end
and your heart is as full as before
but all you can do
is wait for the day
she will turn and look back for you
close your eyes
tell no lies
delay the amen
and hope she comes home again soon
the door that stands behind her slowly opens
i kick it shut
time after time
each time i look it’s open again
this mysterious haunting door
nothing is visible, nothing profound
i see her longing,
longing for sleep,
i see fear,
a lost look in her eyes,
as i hold her still, warm hand
there are tears in my eyes
i won’t let them flow for her now
the door swings ever wider
and lets in a soft evening light
it’s gentle, that light,
i see that
The Dreaming Path 