Tell The Others I’m Spoken For (Nature’s Bride)

Tell The Others I’m Spoken For (Nature’s Bride)

I waited for the signal

of birds professing that the day ahead

was waking from her slumber.

There’s a peace in the dawn

that guides us all; an opportunity

for the heart to lead

before we’re all supposed to rely

on the ritual of speech

and I open the gate to greet my selves there.

It’s early enough in the morning

we aren’t required to play whole,

chasing the shadows that unfold

as the sunrise serenades us with its daily composition

but always different shades

of purples and pinks and greens.

They change with my heartbeat,

wind caressing my skin

in time with the gentle blues.

Nature; the lover I’ve been missing,

the world that lays itself out for you.



She likes to lie in,

drag herself out of bed with enough time

to apply her face

and weigh out the insides of her skin;

decide how disappointed in herself she should be today,

can she hate-motivate herself enough

to starve for the Love Island figures.

Rush hour traffic grinds her quickly eroding patience,

as does the man who hasn’t texted her back yet

but she’d be lying if she said she hated the game.

She uses the queue to inspect her nails,

readjust the strap of her new Kurt Geiger heels –

“Now, this is what women want.”

Payday tomorrow, might have to go shopping,

there’s a Dyson for £300 in the sale –

bargain, all the better to clean those heated floors.

After work drinks planned,

she can take her new handbag,

best get a lunchtime top-up tan.

Later, drinking white wine spritzer –

“Did you hear why such and such quit?”

“I never liked them anyway, always nice to your face, but then -”

maybe more chance at promotion,

more money, maybe an all inclusive holiday,

get a new Audi, or champagne brunch with the girls.

It’d make for some good Instagram snaps.

Home, to TV and blessed monotony,

she takes a selfie in her lacy vest top,

photoshops the blemishes,


Homage To The Pit Of My Stomach

Homage To The Pit Of My Stomach

We struggle with our work-life balance;

argumentative for whose role it is

to digest and process

what expresses itself as hunger,

announced with a drum roll

and buried deep in golden soil,

why do you always have to make this personal?

Maybe others are sympathetic to your plea

but you stand on shrinking nerves

I didn’t know existed

in those parts of my body,

how dare you show up so naturally.

The site of all egocentricity;

I used to fear your twisted interior

except now I see that sometimes

the things we first think look most pretty

are all but empty of substance.

Loving you takes courage;

a round of ‘love you, love you not’,

plucking chance petals in the absence of knowing

that every flower which grows here is edible.

Sometimes, I just don’t believe in you.

I go along with it,

because other people, like my therapist,

want me to explore this pyrophobia,

my fear of playing with the fire in my belly –

the ‘shining gem’, manipura, the yellow element,

source of healing power.

Self-worth perfected in the heat of the kiln

which I’ll use to burn this house down.

Eyes On The Weather Forecast

Eyes On The Weather Forecast

Presence is but a balance beam,

the thin, or ever expansive line

dividing past and future

in a measure of breaths.

It’s slippery if not gritted

and we tend to count the steps

we think we have left

over the strength of our legs,

over the snowflakes landing

on our upturned palms.

Can you marvel at their melting,

stay with them whilst they pass away

and soak into the skin which remains?

Can you appreciate the sky

as it waters your present

or are you so busy avoiding the cold

that your fingers burn

on an imaginary fireplace?