loss

And if I loved forty

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And if I loved forty,
it would be for the sweet joy
of confidence in a room.

And if I loved forty,
it would be that I
knew my place
– inside out.

And if I loved forty,
it would find me able
to sit awhile with someone sad
and mourn.

And if I loved forty,
it would be to see dear friends children
grow old enough to make me
a cup of tea.

And if I loved forty,
I would embrace quiet,
evenings by myself
a blessing of solitude.

And if I loved forty,
it would be for long views still
of growing, and of grandeur.

And if I loved forty,
it would be for patience,
and for knowing
that all things are made new.

And if I loved forty,
my friends too would be
grown and worn into
comfortable grooves of
loving kindness.

And if I loved forty,
I would be wise.

the schedule

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my day was
scheduled to death.
every slot too small to
fit a human.
I had to hope
that no-one had any
curiosity left in them.
or everything would
fall apart.

I was lucky;
they had all forgotten
what life was –
if they ever knew.
obediently they toed the
schedule line,
retrieved themselves from
exuberance.
someone had bad news from from home,
regrouped in a
coffee break,
swallowed sadness and
cappuccino straight down,
got back in the game.

all around us autumn beauty
unfolded steady as a
queen.
we had four point five minutes
in which to walk to the river and back;
by then numb to it all,
I can see it like a photo,
feel nothing.

I don’t know if I can
do this anymore.

all kinds of twilight

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A moment in the lit night
Appliances hold their breath
while order turns the house
inside out.

Dying, toes in heaven,
whispered conversation
trust eternal trust
and a fleeting goodbye.

Just-born tiny being
paused a long moment
silently sleeping –
were you even there? –
the ward’s time teetered.

6am on Christmas morning,
we played outside the door
to bliss, unheated in a cold
December grey.  You didn’t need
a jumper.

A glance and moment’s wonder
forty years light-sped
into a pause, fleeting,
richly full and awkward in
pregnant expectation.

Long silhouettes spear
dazzling sun.  Lunchtime
crowds turn mysterious
My city is haunted.

All kinds of twilight.

red helium heart balloon – a poem for a cousin’s birthday

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I was thinking of your birthday;
‘A helium balloon!’  I cried to myself
(internally as there was no one
around to hear me).

I waited til the day before
to buy it as I did not want
even a sniff of helium to escape
or bring it too soon
down to earth.

That day, I forgot where
the helium balloon shop was
had to double back on myself.

I walked in triumphant
‘A birthday balloon’, I asked the
shop assistant.  The store was
filled with valentines

that crowded out the ‘normal range’.
I didn’t think you would like
a balloon loudly proclaiming ’40!!!!!’
or Olaf or the one from Planes.

A momentary qualm assailed me;
was my helium balloon plan to be
thwarted by the patron saint of love?

On the contrary!  The saint of love
smiled down fondly; a red heart
helium balloon perfectly fit the brief.

a heart for love,
a heart for hopes and dreams,
a heart for passions and adventures,
a heart for you.

‘Oh, that one please, on the
longest red string!’  The jaunty
foil heart balloon reached boldly to the sky.

I could not bear to
imprison it in a plastic carrier.
It is not what helium balloons
were made for.

I basked in the smiles of passers-by
as I wended my way home
thinking of your birthday.

‘She will be so pleased!’  I said
to myself.  ‘No one else will have
thought of such a thing.’

The happy balloon, full of love
and excitement, bobbed up and down,
couldn’t wait to meet you.

It was a windy day; perhaps I should have been wiser.
In a moment, the companion attached to my wrist
was gone.

Oh!  I looked up: A red heart took flight
into the street, up, up,
above the silver birch tree lines.

Up, up, UP, riding thermals beyond
the multi-storey car park.
Up consorting with the seagulls.

I saw it last as it bobbed behind
the church spire; a heart and a cross.
To infinity and beyond.

I wanted to give a heart
for your birthday – for love, for hopes,
for passion, for you.

But the heart wanted to give you a poem,
Show you that your hopes and dreams soared to
dance with the angels,
to mingle with the stars.

Show you that the heart is free;
and alive and full of grace
and beauty.

That nothing can hold it back.

lost journal – the journal’s tale

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Only slowly does it dawn on me
that motion has ceased.
It is silent for the first time
in a long while.

I cannot make a sound
to attract attention.
I wait so still,
hoping.

It is warm between
the Financial Times
and Vogue.
But I shiver.

Swoop, arms gather the
newspaper and detritus
of flight BA0589
from Milan Linate.
I slide out under the
seat in front of you.

Will they come with vacuum
cleaners?
Not this time.  I hear the
hum of new arrivals.
Distant first,
then nearer.

Am I going back to Milan?
I recall cosy bedrooms,
grand galleries
and a few moments at a café,
when I was loved.

I miss the motion of her
pen, the flicking of my pages
and the close attention of her
eyes rereading and sometimes
looking away.

I miss the triumphant tick
in a small blue box
the sigh of satisfaction
and the sometime quick
snap-shut of a distraction.

What’s that?  Far from being
cornered by another
bag, I am being retrieved
by a total stranger.
I hold my covers tightly
shut through sheer willpower
to no avail.

Alien eyes peruse my pages.
I hope her writing turns
to scribble just in time.
My pages are flicked back and forward.
‘There’s no address’ I observe
unnoticed.  Only ‘private’ and
maybe hidden clues, who knows?

With relief, I remark
a kind of gentleness of touch.
Hope glimmers – perhaps I might
be restored to my owner?
I know she is looking for me
amongst the other
lost possessions, can hear her
hopeful tap-tapping of her plea
to find me.

I am being
slid in
to someone’s business bag.
I smell leather and Apple.
My pages snag on chargers.
For the first time, I am afraid of the dark.
I want to go home.

And I know I won’t.