Steaming



 Sun beats down
 
 Transfusing the balcony
 
 With red-bricked heat,
 
 Scalding bare feet,
 
 Steaming the potted lemon tree.
 
 Reflective, dazzling,
 
 Sunglasses inducing
 
 The sparkles shatter to haze,
 
 And siesta sizzles.
 
 The world is on fire,
 
 Our room
 
 An inferno of tropical proportions,
 
 As the birds fly past
 
 One wing over their eyes.
 
 At least,
 
 That’s what we imagine,
 
 As we pull the covers up
 
 To stave off the chill.
 
 
 
 
 
 

Run (A Mother’s Wish)


 Run, my child
 Run through your dreams
 Run till your heart pounds
 Bursts at the seams
 
 Run over mountains
 Run like the wind
 Run through the forests
 Till darkness rescinds
 
 Run to the daylight
 Run ‘cross the sea
 Run like a starburst
 Just run home to me
 
 
 
 
 

Underneath The Table


 It wasn’t the safest place,
 
 Stood in the middle of the kitchen,
 
 Four wooden legs and a cracked oak top,
 
 But it offered more than false protection.
 
 That old piece of a Grandparent’s castaway life
 
 Represented promise: a priceless gift.
 
 You see, it held two irrefutable truths:
 
 One, I could see the window from it,
 
 I could almost taste the freedom;
 
 The second, I knew that one day
 
 In a future not too far away,
 
 I would be too big to fit under it.
 
 I knew that when that day came
 
 I’d be big enough to hit him back.
 
 
 
 

Crying For The Wrong Reasons

Rainwater falls in tearful torrents,
 
 Washing down the walls,
 
 Crying clean the gutters.
 
 It sluices away at pace
 
 Disenchanted by the stench
 
 To hide beneath our feet.
 
 Tremulous it seeks to leave,
 
 A liquid mind with liquid thoughts,
 
 And churns away into a distant
 sea.
 
 There it lingers
 
 Weeping still, drifting ever on,
 
 Haunting the oceans with regret
 
 Until settling beneath the clouds that birthed it.
 
 There the water cries in reverse,
 
 Memories of filth transported
 
 Into a climate that already holds too much:
 
 So much crying;
 
 So many tears;
 
 And all for the wrong reasons.
 
 The cycle begins again.