Grayscale

I see him, walking in the rain.
Each step sending glitter soaring
Onto the paper pavement.

Alone. Arching trees gathering shine
And dropping it. Sudden. Wet.
Sweeping away yesterday.

Alone, he strides in a sleek suit,
Hair slicked with balsam gel.
Silent shoes in soft percussion.

Alone, water runs down fabric,
Clings to his flesh like a lover.
A discomfort-blanket on a grayscale day.

Now another, running alongside,
Newspaper falling into rain.
A greeting, a quick closeness

Brought on by comfort.
Black company canopy,
Under which we nestle.

We smile, walk, talk of our lives.
Our journey. Now together.
Soon to part.

Silent bonds of a rainy day.
A company canopy, shielding
Us from the world.

Walking along that grayscale road,
On that grayscale day,
And into that grayscale distance,

We glowed beyond grayscale,
Beyond black. A golden umbrella
On a perfect, azure day.

Whistle

Drowning in your sound.
No escape. No music.
Ears beating, condensing
With effervescent glory.

Touching. Sweet sounds
Springing into the sea
Of my soul. Pure whisper,
Soaring.

Fizzle and fade, clatter
Into silence. Whirr, whizz.
A bird pin perched,
Ready for its next song.

.

Listen. Can you hear me speaking?
Speaking these words softly, into your ear?
I want you close your eyes and listen.
To hear my words. Feel them. Make them real.

A street bench. Wooden, worn, occupied
By two men, walking sticks propped on legs and hands.
They gabble. Pidgeons cluck at their feet.
A man plays the saxophone on the street corner.

You become warm, hear muttering and shouts,
Hoots, groans, grunts. Fast twittering of market traders
Calling their spices. Bells speak. Warbles whisper
Secrets of faith and futures.

Plainsong, heard from far through an open window.
Chanting voices, latin.
The smells of rosemary and roses.
The click of clippers and shuffle of falling flowers.

Now, you hear the sounds of silence.
I think you understand.
I have nothing more to say.

That Little Child

I ask you, who are you?
You answer me with your name.
I repeat. You repeat. In pure simplicity.
Nothing seems difficult. Or complicated.
The red bucket and the yellow spade.
Barbie with Ken. Forever.

Now, cracks show on skin. Limbs askew.
Contorted. No longer a beautiful game.
No longer perfect. You see the audacity
As he walks away. Childhood is dated
By your thoughts. Yet the golden shade
Of childhood days linger. Simple. Perfect.

Forever.

Dreamer

You float.
Glide. Hover.
Your feet are pointed with their own weight.
Ballet-hardened toes from your dancing.
A camera clings to my palm. I film your dreaming.
Tiny storms wash around you.
Internal nebular tempests of poppies,
Rubies, roses;
Shining red apples lying in shining red piles
On vibrant, lurid grass.

You are craving.
Escape. Freedom.
To move your feet in the air and soar forwards.
Towards the prayer in your eyes.
I hear your rhythm. I record your dancing.
Capture it in my heart. Eternally.

Nevertheless,
The horizons contine,
the moving canvas
Of the heavens;
Pageant of clouds and stars
And the shifts
Of mystical blue,
Azure and cerulean. Ultramarine.

Your feet keep dancing. Swathed in colours,
Absorbed by life. Yet I hear the counting
Of ‘one’, then ‘two’, then ‘three’
And I think of your multitude dreams,
Balancing on your two tiny feet.

There are too many dreams.
Why we sometimes fall. Sometimes fail.
Yet we balance and watch our clocks tick
Away our chances. We smile.

And pray.

Eyes

You hold a tiny child in your arms and see
How it grasps onto your hand,
Seeking comfort in your firm form.
It turns and gazes into yours, learning you
In a mere glimpse.

Bright eyes. Wide eyes. Not yet tainted by life.
Seeking to absorb every colour in an instant,
Gazing with pools of light, without fear.
Your eyes are smaller, shutting out the darkness
With an tear-drawn squint.

You walk away, one step at a time,
Into the darkness, wider and wider.
You try to walk faster, catch the departing train
By a second in an effort to extend your life.
As though a commuter watch is the key to life.

I ask you to stop. To slow and read these words.
You cannot read faster. You cannot think wider.
You will drop this paper to the wind and forget
As time continues, seeking a new second to destroy.

I ask you to stop and remember.
To widen your eyes to every colour.
To cry one more tear than courtesy allows.
To dance down a street without thinking or caring.
To wear fluorescent green and not care about the last train.
To watch the glimmering stars turn and for one moment,
Simply, sweetly, just be alive.

Morning

I wake to cracked sunlight,
Pouring across my floor
In crystalline waves, bright
As starlight. Under the door
Creeps the smell of coffee.
A sunny morning’s ritual
That I have missed. Stroppy
Sibling searching for victuals
To devour. Summer birds twitter
In the trees. Clouds float, undisturbed.
Steaming cup. The taste, bitter.
Bread rolls arranged, served,
By shaking fingers, gripping
The plate. Cat, purring softly.
Father listening to the radio, sipping
And muttering over the news, crossly.

Now, all is different.
Sky seems darker underneath blue.
Deep darkness under door. Ignorant
Silence audible. Impossible. Soft mew
From edge of bed. Down the stairs,
Into the kitchen. I click on the kettle.
Teacup, teabag, milk, mug. Cat cares,
Chasing my legs. I give up. Settles
To licking a bit of butter. A whack
To the CD player and Africa pours out.
I smile. Tea. Toast. Whirr. A new track.
I settle with a purr. Yet I feel the lack
Of life. An old man lies asleep upstairs.
Walking stick in the hall. I hear a shout
And come running. Music of another world dares
To follow my feet. At the end, I will I start to walk.

Doubting. Yet smiling.

To be flawed is to be human.

We are all human. Simple. Flawed.
Cracks that glint in solitude, shine in isolation.
I am a small figure, covered in porcelain grey glaze,
Kiln cracked. Painted with millimeter perfect
Brushstrokes across my fractured surface.
Peach skin glowing in lamplight. Trousers, a shirt.
Eyes, eyebrows, hair; painted on with thin delicacy.
Not perfect. But acceptable.
Then the final layer of lipstick,
Applied with my porcelain hand.

We are all human. You. Me. Every child. Every adult.
The politicians with painted faces, smiling.
Teachers, mothers, doctors who always know best.
All cracked beneath the surface. Some barely. Some broken.
I paint on my smile, my self-assurance, my contentment.
In truth, one touch and I shatter. But I hide this
Beneath a smile. Beneath perfection.
I think you know this. I think you understand it.
Because I can see your cracks, as clearly as my own.
You are not alone in your sadness. I just learnt to smile.

In Memory

A distorting mirror rests dusty on a whitewash wall,
Stolen from a funfair, hidden from grassy travel
By God’s strange plan. As you stare, it begins to unravel
Who you are. You remember your childlike bawl
At the seaside or the shopping centre. Your first
Best friend. Your first kiss. Your first good grade,
Or perhaps your first bad one. The first time you cursed
God for making you real. The first time you were paid
For the paper-run or working the bland office phone.
The first time you cried so hard you couldn’t speak.
Distorted in your mind, you see how you have grown
Into who you now are. Now defined by time. The weeks
Days, months, years of your life, arranged in a line.
Your heart aches for what has gone. All that lost time.
-- Keep dreaming, child, for what you have lost,
For now you are dead and have seen the mirror’s cost.