THE TASTE OF RELEASE.

Skulking the streets, stalking the trees,
Picking through the scattered rubbish,
A chipped glass, cuts my lip as I sip,
Bleeding red wine into the rain collected.

Bandaged knees, crumple beneath me,
Strike flint and steel against mind's tinder,
Up the mountain, stumbling, crumbling rock,
A cracked bell, it does not ring again.

Short-sighted by the depths of the bottles,
Flowers denied chance to bloom and blossom,
Walk the empty garden, heir only to rotten leaves,
Eyes screwed tight, he watches patiently.

Lose the script and scale the cliff face,
These unchartered lands without milestones,
Across the light, the pack becomes weightless,
Clinging on amidst murky water, immovable.

Shattered chains, lay panting on the riverbank,
Along the boulevard, humbled by the majestic tree,
Keep old newspapers and write your songs,
Revere the winter warming, his burning torch.

Shining bright like light through my eye's prism,
Splitting a rainbow with the flash of a camera,
Dousing fires that rage deep underground,
Leave clothes to the salty air and taste release.

THE OCEAN.

A white lily on the ocean, taken in his hand,
Together submerged beneath the waves, holding on tightly,
Looking eastward, to that grand house,
Falling grains of glass stop motionless.

Cast off the shoes and set sail, no destination,
Inhibition left on shore, become two moons in orbit,
Numbed by the chill of amethyst night,
Breath comes with wondrous devotion.

Yet he remains stranded, unable to see the flower,
Beyond oceans horizon lays a door,
Only his key can turn the lock,
The garden awaits, a perfect Eden.

Blinded by the distance, angered by the charts,
He smells a sweet fragrance, takes it into his lungs and heart,
Shipped to a secluded coastline, flower in his lap,
Memoirs of an instant shared, a future waiting.

SILVER BIRCH.

Crying child beneath the Christmas tree,
Frame was cracked by ugly distorted faces,
Clutching the photo close, warmth from dying embers,
White winter snow melts away, mud once known.

Lonely faucet starts to leak, monotonous,
Each drip chisels away at the grand oak door,
Weathered and worn, hanging off its hinges,
Book that bears scars, binding frayed, pages burnt.

Ghastly night stalks the Sun, draw the curtains,
Cower behind the armchair, until the very end,
Remembered summers and chance encounters,
Carefree birds peck seed strewn in the garden.

Chasing empty-handed butterflies through the meadow,
A whiskered soldier unaware of what has become,
Laid in the grass, watching silhouettes against the Light,
Unfamiliar floral dress billows, damp and stained.

Boat launches from the beach with so many others,
One way ticket, a basin full of hair and foam,
Carriage retreats through slush, weighed down with gifts,
Silver birch waits impatiently on the hearth.

LEAVING HOME.

Battered hands leave smudges on the window,
Fingers and palms, photographs of fleshy time,
Beyond stern-faced suits and bleary mothers,
Clouds all-knowing, nightmarishly grey.

Flock of birds in flight, weaving skeletal trees,
Numb leg taps to songs of your existence,
Past glass are nameless towns, unfamiliar hills,
Hurtle past, ever further from home.

Snippets of chatter, disillusions and dreams,
Tabletop littered with coffee cups, stimulating,
Through sleep find company on a distant carriage,
The woman combs, loose hair falls like hope.

Billowing chimneys and busy lights shrouded,
Cold metal bench waiting, an underground breeze,
Heavy bag laden with cheerful gifts, my ticket home,
Choked to tears by lives and lies, these two weeks.

Engine running, gloved hands and open arms,
Shadow of night greeting at journeys end,
A message from far away, small smile creases,
Traveller in B30 is weary and tired, come to bed.

HOUNDS.

Hunted by hounds, so I take to the motorway,
Don't want to be caught, but the hole is burning fierce,
Flames lick my mind, burning my eyes,
Blinded, smashing into a hall of mirrors.

The reality of the ghost train shatters my conviction,
As simple as the flick of a switch,
Plunged into the dark of night, shadows torture,
Hands through my hair, Mother's, but the mirrors are empty,

Running cowardly through the black, get back to the city,
Places to hide, but my compass points to the past,
A swinging lantern comes into view, dazzling me,
Shielding my eyes, refuge comes within her arms.

The puddle blocks our path, deep and dank,
So headfirst we dive, hands held, into a world brand new,
Hounds dead and buried, the motorway long demolished,
Lied about homework, but you're a different kind of teacher.