beauty

away

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I have been 
away.
What can I say?

Except that, maybe 
you have too, haven’t we 
all, lost ourselves,
all our bearings,
signs we once thought we knew
scribbled over, what was it that it said there,
once upon a time?

What is this new strangeness
to which we are becoming
accustomed?

Can I continue to haul
my hopes along this wild path?

Will you?  Will you haul along beside me?
Or will you drop your dreams 
imperceptibly, numbed by the 
exhaustions, numerous and wailing,
hungry and afraid, eating you
alive?

Perhaps if we
sat down a moment, here?
yes here.  Bare scrub it looks, of course

it always does.
Rest, imperceptibly a stillness
creeps over
the pains, furies at injustice, which,
of course, must take hold, but must
not,
must not turn sour.
Stillness, friend, and rest
mere moments as a dew descends, hush.
Soak your wounds in wonder.
There is just enough

to keep going
til morning,
as still we are alive

I am away, yes,

but here

deaths for you

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I have died a hundred deaths for you.
Since we met…
Since we kissed, that first time.

And you talked about our daughter
Perilously.

The cherry blossoms were not out
but sunlight glimmered cooly
over the spring air
over my red date shoes tucked under the café table.

You disappeared.
Something you would do again and again and again.

So I died that death then,
Cried the tears out in the middle of a business trip.
Discovered peace.
‘Extraordinary grace’ a voice declared,
And I believed it.

I was staying in your city.
You were seeing someone else, and yet
there was power, was there not, in that air?
You could not stay away; yet honour prevailed.

I died that death then,
cried the tears out in my new friend’s country house garden.
Her father made waffles with cloudberry jam.
How could such sweetness exist?
With pain?

I lived in your absence.
You never wrote or called.
You policed yourself so well.
One day you introduced me.
Possibly naive.

There was no death there.
I’d died beforehand,
in fire and wonder
of my own making.

And then you came to find me, again
we kissed, under the Red Moon sky,
in the midsummer night of a picnic,
a bracing swim,
tender conversations,
delight in your eyes.

In a blink you had vanished.
You were ‘afraid’.
You were ‘running away’.

You met someone else.

I died such a death,
the like of which I’d never seen before.
Wild trust, goodness and silence,
knowing, fury
Pain, fire, tears and painting
My dreams caught alight.

I have died a hundred deaths for you, yes
And I am more alive than I have ever been.

nest

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I am building a nest for you,
my love,
out of my hopes,
out of my dreams.

I am building it from sweetness,
that I allow to grow within me,
these sweet summer days,
on the threshold.

I am building a nest that will not fail us,
when you arrive,
and our hopes entwine.

I am building it from fire,
and longing,
a desire that will not snuff out
in cold winds.

I am building you a nest,
my love,
and when you discover it,
you will be amazed,
and you will hold me,
and we will be healed.

And new,
and at peace,
and whole,
and ready.

sand dunes, gone

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There were sand dunes there once.
I slid down them,
jumped, laughing.

There was a green field there once,
I looked right across,
to trees, to sky.

There was an old hotel there once.
I took tea, cosy
with my friends’ secrets.

There was honour here once.
The airwaves
tremble with bitterness today.

We had conversations here once.
Now, cables and ear-plugs.

I was at home here once.
I’m lost.

last pelargonium

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It was really quite white
when I found it,
the last pelargonium,
but I was on a budget
and it was reduced
so I bought it
although really I wanted a pink one.

It’s a ‘mårbacke’, said the florist.
It’s a traditional kind.
But it was white
so I doubted.
Do you know the place?
I didn’t.
It is the home of a famous writer,
Selma Lagerlöf.
A current barely stirred.

And anyway,
I was on a budget
so I bought it
although it wasn’t pink,
but white.

I stood my white pelargonium
in a mixing bowl.
I didn’t own a plant pot
and was on a budget.
A mixing bowl was all I had.

It stood, a little self-conscious
on my step.  Two flowers giving me
joy, but white, and no others
arrived to join them.

I looked up Lagerlöf:
A woman writer
native to this land,
winning prizes,
when women didn’t.

I wished my plant was pink.

I went away for work,
asked an almost-neighbour
to water my pelargonium.
She took it in its mixing bowl,
didn’t comment.

A while later I returned,
settled in and eventually went
to retrieve the last pelargonium.
It has probably died, I told myself
to preempt disappointment.
The neighbour may not have been there
all the time.  It’s been hot.

I wandered up the path,
curved around the corner.
I spied the last pelargonium
covered in flowers.

They were pink.