Saving Daylight

Saving Daylight

Sunshine spreads love to this skin,

melting milkshakes

with the innocence of children,

whilst the warm breeze,

collecting curls of autumn leaves,

becomes a bed for skinny lovers

soft enough to sleep on.

Do they detect the change in weather?

Do they know what’s to come?

This week the magazine headline

presents six tips

to change your life.

Number one is

Feel Disturbed’

‘It’s discombobulating’,

the old lady thinks to herself

as she sits at the wrong table

and children eat their fingers.

Eiderdown 2

Eiderdown 2

Cheering the clouds on their way

I plant kisses on their lovers,

making amends for our short stay

and to comfort the cold in their bones,

caught from years of cursed Octobers

that I could not insufflate.

A little bird begs for my breath

to aid its way back home,

but I cannot change the course of Mother Nature,

just help to raise him up,

in the hope his flying fight defeats

the impending dark of a night alone.

I collect the autumn leaves to my chest,

longing for all to be content

with life and its changing colours.

Eiderdown

Eiderdown

The wind brings with her

cloud after cloud, each calling

in turn with a draught at the door

to sweetly kiss my cheek

and bid me peace on the breeze,

for theirs is but a fleeting visit,

full of vows

that this October will be different, darling.

The faint figure of a single starling,

black at a distance, seen closer

with a gloss of purples and greens,

fast in flight, impeded by mistrals

on its route to the roosting site

where a mass murmuration

warms its wings on winter nights.

I watch from my window,

not yet convinced by the change in weather.

Cat in Repose

Cat in Repose

Crescent moon

curled up on a cloud

my lap brings the comfort

and her deep sighs, the sleeping sound

though gentle noise twists her ears

and open peeps one eye.

She could stay still for hours

with her chest a steady rise

and fall, then slight twitches

or flicks of the tail.

Her white fluffy paws knead the air

as pleasure prevails

with gentle pur on the outbreath.

A parcel of ginger and black,

her warm coat a replacement

for the fur that I lack.

Cicatrix

Cicatrix

It starts as an itch,

an idea in bits,

scratched

till the skin splits

and ink meets its match

in the bleeding that drips

a pattern onto the page

which sticks,

holding the nib

with firming grip

as the blood begins to buffer

the cut

clotting thick

till the meaning fits

and settles itself

as a scar,

starting at scarlet

to a shimmering blush

when the sparks rush

to the surface

with one sensitive touch,

and when the sensations

created

are all out of love,

its silver surface stays

as a statement

to be heard

for what happens

when the heart tries

to stop the writer’s words.