Underneath Your Sleeve Sketches

Underneath Your Sleeve Sketches

I’m close to running out of words

but since you always preferred pictures

I will write this last one as an image,

bold colours painted on canvas

to accentuate the meaning you have only partly heard.

Brush strokes form curves that protect from your sharp edges,

you were a paper cut borrowing my blood,

spreading stained fingerprints across soaked skin

and calling it fine art, calling it love.

Something Softer Than Flowers

Something Softer Than Flowers

It’s December 2016, and we pack these winter blossoms

into bento boxes, whispers of potential

to warm these bones, worn as a wish

but later wrapped as a promise.

You profess you cannot understand poetry

so brave the words in plain sight, born of longing

for a lighter spring, a bold leap towards belonging

to the flow of the seasons and folded limbs.

‘More fun’, you said, ‘more time’, list reasons to celebrate

our intertwining lives and smile at the story so far.

The story; so far.

What I Owe To No One

What I Owe To No One

This might be a year of firsts;

the year I learn not to shrink

into a space neatly prepared for my heart

since I am a privilege

and not a ‘one size fits all’,

that even good things can fall away

and words left unsaid

are a bottled scent left on the doorstep,

a perfume I can’t wear anymore,

pick my power up off the floor,

feed on its potential,

adore myself.

This Year I Will Listen To Soul Music

This Year I Will Listen To Soul Music

At 2pm, last year breezed past me, out the door,

gracefully granting next year could plant her seeds

before sunset, steadily watered with liquid gold.

‘Hey Jude’ playing over the speakers

and I bless the drunken singers, warbling chorus

enough to cover for our quietness

as we stand there, feeling the corners of our lips

curl up in the sounds of silent serenade,

whilst tiny songwriters etch lyrics into our retinas,

signalling how these soft notes might look good on us.

Recapturing: Almscliffe Crag

Recapturing: Almscliffe Crag

Muddy boots, the sign of a good adventure

breeze-dried to my jeans.

It’s Christmas, and anyone who knows lonely

will know how much this means

to have hands to pull you up.

The wind gives me time to steady my feet,

mist lingering in earnest to softly kiss my cheeks

with afternoon colours, greys and greens and blues

and we could be on top of the world.

Now, more than ever,

I understand nature’s lesson;

a picture really is worth a thousand words.