Remember way back when, the time when I wouldn’t have existed, but if I had it would have been somewhere dark Sounds like jazz running down the bar, so deeply soaked into the stained wood that it is the varnish of improv I hear in my sleep. A darkness that tastes like a cherry nestled … Continue reading Dark chocolate and gin
Tag: prose poem
Wool Gathering
Please excuse me not looking you in the eye. I’m off somewhere over your left shoulder, gathering my thoughts and the melting snow is flying off a tree branch with all the spirit of a spring river. Wool gathering, my gran might say in a tone that once would have stung and now simply makes … Continue reading Wool Gathering
Mark My Place
There is an urgency to a bookmark laying unused. What passage would it mark, on what words has it been placed? How many times did her fingers lay it down, snug against the spine, as she takes a shivering breath, book clasped to her chest and a gloss in her eye? The certainty, the joy, … Continue reading Mark My Place
Sunday Awoke
The days of the week march by in capitals. As though each is its own being, named, dropping in for a visit once in seven. Each day has a favourite colour of course, and its own friendship with the moon. At times, when restlessness or need keeps us up to the wee hours, we see … Continue reading Sunday Awoke
Of Bravery and the Beginning
I used to say that I love the beginnings of things. The fresh start. The briskness of possibility that always smelt faintly of coffee to me, or shampoo, or perhaps the first day that winter starts to smell green. I would say that the middle is where you get bogged down in too many roads … Continue reading Of Bravery and the Beginning
This Feeling I Name
It is not longing that I feel. Longing has such a round and gentle flavour. Like the melancholy of children who can enjoy the sad because they have not yet fought for the happy And lost? Perhaps, Perhaps I have. It is not seeking that I taste. That word is far too alive for the … Continue reading This Feeling I Name
He Had This Way
He had this way of holding my hand when we were out walking at night. The press of people would force us to go single file and he would bend his arm behind his back, holding my hand against him, never letting go, never losing me in the crowd. He had this way of introducing … Continue reading He Had This Way
Gray Morning
There are times, in the eerie hours of the morning when the birds are awake but the sun is yet the slightest lightening from dark to gray, I hear breath breathing beside me. The murmur of an inhale a moment before my own, the faintest drift of air on the back of my neck. In … Continue reading Gray Morning
Gosh Darn Sunlight 