We measure space as the distance between two objects;
destinations, travel time, our indecisive minds.
In the middle exists inertia’s shelved life –
TV screens and celebrity magazines
injecting the senses with anti-ageing regimes
till every self-love drugs test comes back clean.
When did we turn numb to natural beauty,
who decided we are done with the inbetween?
This Earth is crying for our attention
neglected more as years pass by,
it broke the sky to give us thunder and lightening
but we all just stayed inside, texting loved ones
with apologies for the minutes we had been away
and blaming the storm for poor phone signal.
We think this planet owes us a cloudless day
like it hasn’t already sacrificed its riches;
how could the rain be so selfish?
The edge of a cliff is a beautiful place
but I misplace confidence in my footing,
forget the risk of mud slides,
the effect of tears on mossy rocks.
By now, the fall should not come as a shock
and the shore breaks waves
like I am sure to break bones.
Blown away are the foundations
of a love to come home to,
for who could ever soften the landing
of a heart demanding to spill its own blood.
I’m left to wonder
whether it will always be
just me and the birds.
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.
I am the hunted,
scent carries on the wind, tastes
of a three course meal
on the tongue,
we meet at the waterhole
to savour the other use for these lips,
preparing for the chase with palate cleanser
they would think we are but grazing creatures
but this prolonged gaze is sizing up sinews, how they execute
movements with the bones,
as nature meets wild beast
my flesh is the feast
upon which you will later feed,
with sadistic grip of incisors,
pinned neck to Savannah dust,
coats collide in frantic lust
as to evolution’s displeasure
I plead guilty.
A stolen traffic cone
left to fend for itself in the undergrowth;
a stark reminder that Mother Nature’s home
is plagued with humans
and helicopter drones,
drowning out Her sounds
from behind distant clouds.
Casting a shadow
across the half built houses,
black picket fences
and synthetic turf trenches
marking war territory now.
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.