Tuesday, 29 October 2013


open the floodgates
whatever you've got
hit me with your lowest blow
i'll take anything you can throw
until you're out of ammunition
this will be my retribution
because i am the strong one
the brave one
and if i cave we all cave
if i break we all break
and it doesn't matter that i already have
if you still see me as the same.
and so, you see, i must be selfless
though i am selfish and alone
i must be brave though my cells scream run down to my bones
i pretend i don't deserve every wound you open.

Saturday, 19 October 2013

the dying is nearly over

Do you ever walk out of the house in the morning - school run, shopping, work - and the air is cold and crisp, without autumn damp? Do you ever think, it smells like winter?
I do. And yesterday morning that's exactly what happened. And I was glad, because although autumn is gorgeous, it's dying, and winter is death - which as far as I'm concerned is easier to live with. Dying is a slow process where the watchers are forced to accept that they're losing and there isn't anything to be done. Death is an absolute, and it ends that dreadful period of waiting, knowing.
Spring is wet and chilly and the only good thing about it is when the snow melts and you think, wow. All of this is still here. 
It doesn't die, under the snow. When everything thaws, frost and hearts, the warmth and the life is still there. 
And so winter isn't really death, because every single leaf that falls in that dying autumn - yes, those leaves will rot and be trodden underfoot and swept away by men in green jackets with silly-looking, glorified brooms, but the tree itself will grow new leaves. And the tree is alive. The leaf itself, whatever purposes it may serve, is simply an organ of a greater organism.
Yes, this is basic science. Yes, I'm still repeating it. Because no matter how many times people say it, it's still amazing. In the human body, we lose and replace cells all the time. We barely notice. The short moments when we graze skin and wait for it to heal - they are inconveniences.
Such is winter for a tree.

Friday, 4 October 2013


past my eyelids there is a bird lying on the ground.
the sky is grey and clear and the ground is frosted over as though it is winter already.
the bird does not move.
the trees are still and the frost is cold. i shiver and my eyelids nearly flicker open. my feet take me to the bird and i touch the feathered body.
warm and alive.
i like life.
there is a song that is not sung, a story unread that tells of life. it tells of tears and of happiness, sleeping and not sleeping, loving and hating and never knowing where you're going. it says look! here is something you could never have imagined. so dream new things, dream of everything you hoped you would be, everything you hoped you wouldn't.
my rambling words are etched into the frost.
the bird is motionless against my hand but the heartbeat that pulses into my palm is full of promises. the sky has clouded over. spring is far away, and light is fading. light always fades.
but nothing on this earth is permanent! the sun is not permanent and we are not permanent. this world is not permanent. darkness is not permanent! the light will come again.
the bird takes flight.