The Memory of Rain

I ran through the forest today and wondered about trees.

Dirt

I dug my hands Into the same dark soil your strong hands broke open

Wrong

When we are young we are taught to be kind

Kindness

I held you frail, fallen fledgling trembling in my palm.

Home

Wherever this is, we’re right in the middle…

Wildness

The appeal of the cliffs near my home is their wildness.

My Mother is Middle-sized

I wrote this for my mum last year but it seems somehow more poignant this year.

Now that it’s done

Christmas crept up slowly, but then rather exploded in our house. Like a sparkler it seemed to take a whole lot of effort and time to get lit, although the anticipation and the first sacred sparks were bliss.