Blindfolded,
bound by crows
unable to gaze
beyond the veil,
I choose helpless
and wallow
in a sword pronged
dungeon.
To be black with wings
is better than none.
As the night sky –
a portal of possibilities –
beckons me
only my shackled
screams can reach
that high
I’m the grey-green North Sea
tide out
calm and clear;
from the shimmering ripples
spreading out
amongst the glossy seaweed
eyes closed
listening
divine whispers
submerged thoughts
she holds the power she seeks
as she stands at the edge of the sea
where the veil swings slim
ancient memories resurface
humming
rain falls
she listens
for herself
In case you’re a kid who doesn’t have the right equipment,
and just in case you’re growing too big for your bones and
have to walk around in second-feet shoes,
take a moment to nestle in the autumn chilled grass,
lean in close, breathe in the slack conker smell and squint.
You might not have a magnifying glass but you can still
recognise kin. Ladybirds, beetles and ants.
Creatures of the earth. Overlooked and taken for granted,
caretake as you learn to nurture yourself into bloom.
In a gondola steered by a bunny with pink
ears and white feathered wings, I rest.
Serene and floating upon a turquoise body of water,
I keep my eyes closed, keeping out the light,
keeping out thoughts of failure.
Let me just drift into the unknown
where there may be green shoots to suck
and damp grass to tinkle my toes.
Who knows, what’s around the bend.
All I know; I’m wearing my favourite bow,
my rubber giraffe is sinking like a ship
along with my rocking horse of dreams.
She’s called Daphe, the woman running the business training out of her Notting Hill home.
The Thames curves south from here by Chelsea, sluggish brown. The city’s awake and burning.
Have you been to see the damage yet? he asks, in our snatched conversation.
Almost gleeful in his hunger to hear details about the tower block which blazed leaving so many people missing or dead.
He says there’s photographs of the missing stuck to tree trucks, walls and railings. Black, brown and olive skinned and missing.
I don’t want to see this suffering. The ruins becoming a tourist attraction. Leave them with some dignity. Always having to endure the gaze in life and death.
Could I be as cute and cunning as a fox, I giggle into another snapshot filter.
Happy in my play and disregard for others’ opinions.
His eyes are open and still. I think he’s a he, slight and young. Pointy nose with white frosting.
The rest of him is a dull orange red.
So whole and perfect and dead.
Lying on his side at the edge of the motorway, four legs sticking straight out as if ready to bounce back onto, after playing dead.
I feel guilty. I didn’t hit him. He was already dead when I flew by in Summer, my metallic orange Susuki Splash, honest.
But when I see him dead as clear as day, I feel shame at my mini Snapchat film and buying into the cunning as a fox stereotype of fairytales.
My heart stays in my throat for the whole day.
Why did he have to die, such beauty and no blood?
I’ve always had a wandering relationship with water.
Called it curiosity as a child. Call it freakiness as an adult. To feel the curling nothingness upon my skin, turning once dry to wet.
I’ve always wondered where the water flows,
why it’s never the same sea twice and
why they keep pulling me back to dive deeper into their cores?
I want to send out a love that feels hard to the people so when they feel it they pay attention.
That they don’t dismiss it as soft.
I want them to feel it in their gut like a punch. Recall the power.
That they don’t miss the promise it holds.
Yes, I want to send out a love that feels hard to the world so they stop taking it for granted.
That they don’t forget to send it back to me.
Living Wild Studios 