The journey 


So I’m carried along

and it’s slow and steady to begin with
but the path is smooth, man-made.

It’s ok, but I don’t get to choose where to go.

The ground becomes uneven

– it had to happen at some point I guess.

I feel the bumps and bounce around

I put my hands out now and then

finding the sides, the edges.

I don’t feel safe but

I close my eyes to make it better.

Suddenly there’s a jolt, bigger than before

and for a moment I’m weightless, with a feeling of freedom, a rush of euphoria;

then I’m on the floor and lancing pain rams through my brain.

Grit embedded in my knees,

and palms I can’t close;

it’s going to take ages to get the stones out

and I can’t do it in my own, not with damaged hands.

I look at the upturned wheelbarrow-

why did I ever think I’d be safe in that?

A bucket on a wheel that can’t even work on its own.


I live amongst sharp edges

Materials, and stuff.
A life of payback.
Every word measured
by cost.
Finding judgement
in gaps
and criticism round corners.

I long for that benign presence
compassionate, understanding


I fight every day
ghosts, shadows, time

to be free of it all


This place, of quiet mourning

it always makes me cry,

I visit their graves,

alone, two bodies lie.

Across the lines of stone

a couple silently

remove rabbit eaten flowers.

My Sister says hairspray deters them

I guess that’s some comfort in the dark hours.

I thought you wanted to be freer Dad?

A restless soul, at home on the sea

now all I see is decay

in a box, under ground.

I light a candle in the room you died Mum,

and watch the light across Eastern faces

and I think of a culture burning incense

so smoke can reach spiritual places

of ancestors to keep them whole.