Shadow

She was their titanium mother
driving through mud pools, fearlessly laughing
she was their pillar, finding joy through rain
through long winter nights,
keeping watch over their their animal dreams

Then the light became to strong
the sun shone too long
their eyes reflect her vacuum
their doubt makes listless laughter
on never-ending days of house arrest
they look towards their newly weakened mother
moving slowly, distracted by muted sounds and fog

hoping for a reminder of her heart, once diamond cut
they hesitate, and walk back to their room, quietly
fearing the heavy shadow she pulls now.

Human

the mind has rooms,
moods and maps
quantifiers of the psyche
an emotional disconnect
between the light and life
a dog chasing tail
a lonely diatribe.

still life

dusty tired optimistic Christmas lights
line the empty streets
an art exhibition life
my chapters are paintings
along the walls
watercolour moments
memories in paintbrush strokes
themed by the curator
dark days, light breaks through,
strange and new

Morning

I dive into the day

With blind sight

I dive with the rush of chlorine

Burning my eyes

Shut eyed faith

Wishing on a dream

For sunshine smile

Union

A picnic blanket on a summer Sunday
quiet jacaranda's lining streets of the capital
I was barely two,
catching small ladybirds with my grandmother
the world was lucky, magical
free from protest,
I believed no child would every need a protest.


that faraway long forgotten picnic
on the lawns of a once nostalgic building
came back today, under a smoking sweating sky
sodden, trodden jacaranda blossoms
young men and women, thousands
 determined, unwavering
I watch them, asking for freedom
the freedom to learn, the freedom to know
they are no picnic blankets now
just a conscious living breathing question
What are you doing inside those walls?
they are brave in the heated helicopter fuelled afternoon.

one day there will be doctors, learned minds
beautiful minds from this crowd
who worked and stood together for  education
one day there may be understanding in the glance of hindsight
now there is just the lawn of my long ago picnic
tear gassed, strewn with broken dreams and stones.

Father

You built a fortress for my protection

an emotional fort, holding my delicate heart

you made it stronger than steel
free from tragedy
free from humanity

you made large windows,

a view to the horizon

I stayed here, stayed safe

I looked out to the evening stars

with no fear.

15.10.15

Realist, analyst, questioner of the family

Humanity tires you, 

animals and toys suffice

Your observations are razor sharp

Light blonde no nonsense strength

Child of the undisturbed,

Born by the ocean

A light heart shining baby

A wide eyed child, world affected 

Your world is not day dreamed

My cerebral child

Your feet firm, as strong as your views, a finely tuned mind

You possess such an intensity of vision, therefore fear too much

An ancestry sets in you, beyond me

A canon on the farm, statues, pictures

You dissect them effortlessly, tirelessly

Cultivated by the farmland forest

Affection so hard won

Loyalty so stalwart

Your mother tries to meander, avoiding potholes

Slowly swerving for any bumps on your particular road.

Land Lighthouse

The days are long, seamless sunlit scenes

And then, abruptly, night

Darkness descends with force and speed

We are left floating in a land

Swimming underneath stars

Seeing nothing but the pin pricks of light above

Unexpectedly in the night

A faded consistent light 

On the horizon

Steady in its yellow comfort

A landmark far away

Signalling life in the night

A table lit for dinner

Familial discussion

A homestead in this lonely desert.

Middle Earth

It was mine,
Between the extreme land beyond the border
And the tamed land left behind
It belonged to me, as much as land can belong.

It was a temperate, beautiful, prospering place
Where seasons bloomed, fires burned, cattle walked
Tractors slowly frontiered the boundaries,
And at sunset, it was a kingdom,
Birds settled the day, stars came, and went
Moons waved, and went
Extremes came
Cold, rain for weeks
Green trees
Too many leaves
A mild mannered temperament kept within
Tea at dawn,
Slow movements, nest egg belonging
Hard to notice, smart to leave alone
A soft place,
Medium heat, well placed
Left to simmer
Forever

Framed

I mounted the painting
crows tossed by the wind
over the swaying wheat field
seeking an appropriate frame
a frame to hold these lonely wheat sheaves
these suspended birds

Lost and Longing

I spent my dreams on you

I spent my childhood with you

reflections of stars stayed above you

I wasted hours next to you

daylight broke behind you

smiles became laughter thanks to you

nightmares broke the night underneath you

I ran across mud puddles in front of you

Now

 I spend days, hours;  life without you.

Possession

I have been dispossessed from a country
displaced from my name
but I have not lost my landline
because my greatest connection is the land
the land I walk on is my lifeline
my friend, my daily reassurance
the field, the red earth
the fire smoke farmland
the grey all consuming ocean
birds crossing the horizon at daybreak
calling me back to the forefront
thy have become my allies
reliable, punctual rhythms, no questions
no answers.

Prayer

Tonight in the grey winter

With commuter and traffic

Leaves on the grass, familiarly

I ask for a crystal ball

The insight of elders

The rain soaked, heat swept away ones

I ask for the future, 

For children keeping a magical world

Where animals talk

A place of private joy

Where I watched leaves change,

Uninterrupted

Firestarter

I have learnt to make fires

At first desperately

At first I lost courage

The small branches smoke

And show no potential

I hasten more wood

The smoke only grows darker

No brave flame survives

I sat back, cold and defeated

With time, I learnt to wait

When the smoke seemed a circling reality, at that moment a fire ignites

The flames gather strength

And eventually, conquer

Retro Speculation

This was a lost time
a stable temperature soft time
something old, tried and tested
dusted and polished

It is always four o clock
the sun is slanted, heat infusing the room
the birds are suspended in their end of day calls
tea poured, the fire made
the moment sealed
addressed, signed and sent.

Duckpond

A delicate, vibrant young joy

In this, the smallest of universes

Sunlight dapples through the bare trees

The meat smoke smell of lunch

Persistent bird calls, quiet dove soothing repetitives

An abandoned duck enclosure sets the scene

For the land of princesses and thieves

Bare branch sword fights.

Hiding behind the empty duck pond

She waits, short silent breaths

Wary of discovery, she doesn't move

Waiting for her young enemy to falter

One rustle of the groundcover
a betrayal of a little footstep

She will know, and attack.

The Student

cleaned of a slate
I have the piano fingers of the beginner, long and shaking
my teachers have taken me
these are my teachers
they are the people of Africa
the land,
the cattle sheds holding light and wisdom
in the tangled undergrowth
the land, accepting under dust and war
unmoving under the stars sending new days across the night
gates gathering dust, rust
less movable, but stable


Land has been my confidant
but my greatest teacher
has been the people of this land
those now in silent dry wind watched graves
I have watched these people
they wait, walking slowly
assuming nothing but potential harm
smiling in the cold
laughing in the dark
quietly keeping monthly supplies
there are no presumptions in Africa
there is no relief, no redemption
there is a day, an hour, a joke
an appreciation that we will all walk to the grave
but that for now
we are alive.

canned food

the map has transformed overnight
without the paths I remember
emotional DNA links the markers
from here to somewhere
a misted sea view, grey days
a quieter place
without the shade of dusk mountains
all that is left here, now
is a once fully stocked happy cupboard
bursting with children's melting moments
golden syrup and happy pink cereal
and now
a sad left behind group of distant relatives
tins of of canned peas and peaches
soon the expiry dates will matter
and no one will be there.

eight years

you are the child of the jackal,
the restless wildness of the dust summer wind
you are the child of animals
four legged devotion, a dog on your bed at night
the pillow makes space for the animals
your headspace is sacrificed in their best interests
the explorer after the dusk brings us indoors
the collector of branches
the carrier of firewood
the believer of woodash stars
a gentle footprint, a graceful walk on this earth
a new vision of this grey, overworked world.

Borders

Land creates a space
there are no invisible lines to cross
when the drought comes,
buffalo trek across the plains
feeling a skirmish, a shift in the landscape
the land is careless of one name,
breathing, dying, rainfall rising and falling
the rhythm larger than the living
claiming nothing,
accepting the flooded river years
the parched, scorched earth years.
Land is unmoving, free
there is a place,
An entitled habitat

There is no place for this child now
he hides her in a room during the day,
she is a shadow, two eyes behind a door
a recluse from childhood
unseen, frightened by daylight, by nightfall
she pulls away when offered a biscuit
there is no space where she belongs
walks,
She does not watch the sky for a thunderstorm
She has no natural rhythm of walking,
Or running down a street
She is foreign,

her borders have become smaller than a room
because someone, somewhere, years ago
put down a stake in the earth
with unnatural ceremony
and said,
this is mine.

Shining

my mother seals doors with oil to insulate the value
my father always polished doors, handles, boats
I have woken up too many times with longing for that time
the fireplace, the passage beckon at night, they call me
they sing to me with the bookshelves
tears only melt their endurance, and they fade too fast
I now know what to do
I look up, I hold up these wooden golden memories
the doors do not close with the moving night hours
I see the winter tree, the Christmas saturated garden
I walk into that kitchen, the stove is still holding our cupcake tray
instead of an empty searing heart bleeding into that sacred space
I hold it up,
take a cloth
I polish and polish these memories
until my fingers are raw
until they are reflected in front on me,
revived, eternal
I shine them until nothing can blur my vision
and lay down the cloth
the reflection is perfect
an untainted, renewed captured life
flowers, rainstorms
a picnic in the poplar forest
they shine more lively than the living.

Landscape Longing

the house stands empty of a family
flies buzz, sometimes the wind chime stirs
dogs lie dormant in the backyard sunshine
a new time weaves through this space
slower, quieter, sadder
but the golden end of day light stays constant
and there are objects which defy our absence
un touched, untidied away
Reverent as a closed museum,
Beautiful and untouched my time
a row of stuffed toys in dolls clothes
the end of the miniature fashion show
silent
the tower of animals and blocks
the meerkat keeping watch from the tower
a recipe book left lying open,
lamb baked with garlic and olives
lavender flowers in a small glass vase
wilting with neglect, but still alive
and the call of the jackal,
baboons shouting
echoing off the cliffs
as night falls.

Heritage Toys

The display in this cupboard
locked for many years
I had forgotten
toy designers, story managers
a musty lavender reminder
as the doors open
the same families from my childhood
regrouped by these young girls
similar ways, different nuances
golden sunlight Sunday afternoons
now a grey storm impeding day
different spaces
the same wonder
combing the small heads of hair.

Sunday Suppers

the shimmering weekend has ended
illusive, thinking it would last longer
like a never-ending sunset before the abrupt night
a stomach sinking reminder of the homework
abandoned on Friday, the school bag behind the door
long division at the dining room table
and the comfort of baked eggs,
slightly burnt toast the way my sister eats it
or sometimes, the ceremony of a Franco's pizza
big balls of buffalo mozzarella cheese
soothing the inevitable back to school dread.

Falling into Presence

My nostalgia is not obsessive

There is a tourniquet to stop the bleeding memory

It will survive, it has its own pitiless integrity 

We will meet at last on the ridge of the jackals

A lonely  place,

west sun setting space lamentation

From the deep aqua subconsciousness
I slowly wake, swimming to reality for air
My head breaks the surface and gasping
I am back in the here and now
Sunday afternoon distant traffic, slow bird calls.

But the dreams stay for a while in the skin of my forehead
Still sketched, beckoning revisiting
Before they fade too soon.

emotional textures

Hindsight is the mosquito in the night bedroom
causing sleeplessness with the high pitched ringing
continuous, unflinching
the percolating thoughts of acid reflection
who we are, who we thought we were
my face was never a mirror to you
I had less strain, more poetic thoughts
less to remember
I had the other worldly visions of the Mediterranean
the high street of Edinburgh in icy rain
to sweep away my pain
I had high fences, easier neighbours
a tired mind, a fire burnt mind
but equally lighter visions to balance the scales
belly laughter on a lawn in summer
the birth of children to silence the voices, the haunting
ultimately I was made of a different harder material
with an ability to push away the entitled sick darkness
but you with your young kind heart
wanted to save the world.

Caves

a pusling hot
parched dry
three o clock silence
rock caves, a respite
in the baking riverbed,
thick with flies
smoking sand
nothing stirs
not even a welcome breeze guest visits
they pull themselves onto the rocks in the caves
lost in the rock face, their red water bottles betray their camouflage
like the kudus resting from the sun.

Nostalgia veneer

A past edited of events
gaping holes of tears
erased, denied, forgotten
a rock was thrown into my life lake
years and years ago
for some dark, indiscreet, sinister reason
the ripples quietly continued
across time and age
for years and years
ripples of confusion, long insomniac nights
double messages
resentment
the light now comes in,
some perfect subequatorial light,
ignoring the long dark concentric ripples, gaining size
moving across my life lake, endlessly, relentlessly.

the meeting ends

It was just a day
Starting with burnt toast
A darkening afternoon, humid
Buses drove their routes
Commuters headed to work
After a sun drenched holiday
At midday I shook with goose bumps in the sun
Uncannily, I heard something
Only a backfiring car
But it seemed further and louder
And more significant.


At that moment,
In a cold rain swept city
the court jesters
Courting eviction from their tribes
Pushing the status quo
Drawing up images of truth masked in satire smiles
The shamens, the exposers
The makers of the uncomfortable,
Non conformers, thinkers
Sat together planning more
Shot down collectively
they died in that room
A shared joke died in that moment
No one left to witness the laughter
The truth
History lost a deeper understanding
A calling out flock of sentinel birds
In that room.

The floating night

She cannot sleep
Her shadow waits for me at the side of the bed
in the long nights
She says the wind is too loud
she can hear crying,
another young child
from further back in history
long ago another child could not sleep here
she was fearful of the night
she still cries in this child's mind
on windy nights, her cries become stronger
in the long dark nights.