Monday, September 11, 2017

Dolour

I am
The dregs in your tea cup;
Those old sole-less sneakers,
Worn in familiars ways
Forgotten

I am
The dust that settles
Around your memories;
The coffee cup stains
On the table;
The tinny silences
Of a phone
That doesn’t ring.

I am
Your loose change -
Forgotten in the cracks,
Amongst the cushions,
Beneath the bolsters
Of our love. 

Tuesday, June 27, 2017

Moving

She
hauled
two cartons, contents -
one hundred and sixty four books,
three posters, two paintings,
and one ceramic owl;
three suitcases of clothes,
a lifetime of jewellery;
one pressure cooker
(with two weights, just-in-case),
three pots, one pan and a spatula –
all non-stick, of course.

Up
four flights of demanding stairs,
(“it’s actually only three and a half”
the broker had promised).
Past the genial uncle with trembling keys,
and a door that wouldn’t cooperate
with his old hands;
around children,
who weave through her legs,
caught in a tense game of ‘cho-pohleec’.

Into
the two-bed-two-bath-hall-kitchen. 

Her laboured breath mingles with the heat
that radiates
from the walls, the floor, the ceiling.
The sunlight throws a mango tinted spotlight
on the dust
that dances in on the back of the hot summer breeze,
and she knows,
She is home.