I went shopping today.
I crossed that street we had crossed together,
The one close to the river
and the theatre.
You remember that day we met there?
It was cold and wet then
Just as it was today.
I went to the same cafe
and bought a coffee for one.
I hope for your return.
There is no promise you will come.
These days I wait for the sun
but hang on to my furled umbrella.
if they walked
down the street
hand in hand
in this town
they would stop all the traffic
in no time
more magic than movies
their beauty surpasses this place
people may wonder
as the crowds part around them,
like water around an island,
why her mouth
has that other-world touch
that slight strangeness
he loves
so much
his smile looks like music
she walks like a river
his eyes dream of forests
there’s a glow, there’s a shine
in the softness of skin
that’s so hard to define
their words
are not spoken
but the birds,
in concealing
her wings,
overheard
their song
They may think we are richer than they, we in a great big mansion, surrounded by a garden and trees, they in their warm terraced houses, stretching off to the distance hills. But we who live here lead another life, as poor as any church mouse, while the mortar crumbles around us, we watch the demise of the house. We have never been rich. No one ever knows what goes on behind the walls.
The rooms are cold and draughty
We conserve our power
And wait for that fateful hour
I look from the kitchen window along the line of the street. Two cars to every house. They drive away early and come home late or walk, burdened with shopping bags, with their children in pushchairs,on skates or running, healthily on ahead. Lives and loves are portrayed on the streets. No one ever knows what goes on behind the walls.
Grandma came every Sunday
Grandma is no more.
She died of cancer last week.
I watch the students come and go, like a yearly flock of birds, to the house at the end of the street. Laughing and joking, carrying bags, the girl and the boy, their arms interlinked nudging against each other, smiling. But I haven’t seen the girl for weeks. No one ever knows what goes on behind the walls.
The boy with the broken heart
Walks slowly today
The girl preferred his best friend
Now Christmas lights fill their windows, their houses welcoming, warm, waiting for Santa Claus to fulfil all their childhood dreams. My dream is to be back in a time when our house was full. The chimney was blocked long ago. No more flickering fires. Now we await the Christmas ghost, the spirit of Christmas past. No one ever knows what goes on behind the walls.
I saw Santa Claus one night
Through a curtain chink
Sleigh bells, snow and winter stars
Every house tells its story. The streets are full of lies. No one ever knows the things that are hidden by the walls.
In the street
a little boy
bends down.
He found a pebble
”Stone!”he cries,
in sheer delight,
reacting as an angel might,
his face illuminated
”Amazing news!”
his mother says.
She smiles at him,
thinking she’s the wise one
I sit in the window alone
above the darkened garden
and the lamplit streets
that lead to the far away hills.
The lamp behind me
casts my own shadow down
onto the empty lawn.
A passing stranger looks up,
hurries on and is gone.
A father carries his daughter home.
She droops on his shoulder, asleep.
The only sound is the traffic
and a party and laughter,
distant, along the street.
The moon is hidden by billowing cloud.
The stars up above are unseen.
Looking down to the gloom of the garden
I take comfort
in only the smallest things –
a frail light that shines on apple tree leaves
and the sweet, gentle autumn air.
The Dreaming Path 