The potholes, the bumps, the clouds, the lows. They are all worth it for the moment of flying through the air, the highs, that sparkle of the silver lining.

- Little Poet

Homecoming

Tonight they are home,
But still, sit the two

Empty chairs at the table.
Two plates less to wash.

Their Mothers hold hankies

To their eyes, while
Their Fathers nod to themselves proudly, reaching

Into the mahogony cabinet in the

Sitting room, placing the medal

With the Queen's name inside, so it
Stands up in its box.

Tonight they are home

And the sounds will be quieter, now.

But over there, in Afghanistan,

The cracks, the shots,

The splitting of flesh

Go on.

Thought for the day

Trifles make perfection, but perfection is no trifle.    

- Michelangelo

The van

You were there, sitting beside me

And I was driving -

I didn't have a license in the dream, either

And the van was out of control, flying over potholes

That made us bounce in the air, up and down

With no seat belts on.

When we went over the edge of the cliff

You were there, sitting beside me

As the glare of the bright, yellow sun

Became streaked with splashes of red.

Reading under spotlight

I'm reading a short story of mine at storytails.org on Sunday! I better get practising my reading voice.

Eeek!

A thief through the letterbox

It's cold and the sky is grey -

The birds are in their nests,

My wallet is empty.

A statement from the bank -

More charges for taking out money

and going over the overdraft.

Twenty-five pounds a time -

I didn't know.

Nothing they can do,

When they have all my money -

and charge me for taking it out.

Tears come and the skies crack open and

The rain falls -

I have to run out before

The clothes are soaked.

Paintbrush

To and fro, to and fro -

Your brush, moving so steadily

I can count on it

To be there, always. With

A smell of White Spirit

That could knock a horse

And a spattered sheet at your feet,

Or wood chipping and a chisel

In your hand. Painting,

Filling in. Making good.

To and fro, to and fro -

Rocking me like a child

In your arms, small

Against your broad chest

And strong arms that are

So used to the flow of the brush.