Memories made on
Devon’s summer shore- we watch
the giggling waves…
Memories made on
Devon’s summer shore- we watch
the giggling waves…
Summer dew lingers
-precarious- determined
not to fall again
My currency is words-
pinpricks of soul shaped and formed
to be melded with time,
and it matters how we spend them-
where we lend them,
and where we give them
willingly or reluctantly.
See words are more than letters,
an alphabet re-ordered,
they can create or dismantle borders,
build bridges or walls
between places and people alike.
They’re more than phonics
that ring in your ear
words you heard
or thought you did writ small or big,
which slid from your ears, your eyes
and seize your mind, and maybe deeper.
Keepers of ideas,
engineers of fear and comfort:
They can make a furnace of your palms,
a hummingbird of your heart,
a glacier trailed down your back.
They’re the shivers and sweats
of hopes and regrets
where silence could have reigned for better or worse.
They can ignite or extinguish your every sense-
tie your tongue and your mind
until the knotted intertwining leaves you silent-
unable to oscillate or vibrate coherently.
They’re the authors of moments,
the tellers of ages, they shape our heres and nows
beyond chapters and pages.
They can make your heart soar,
faster and harder than you thought it could
and they can stop it, too.
They’re what I’m stood here with,
alone on this page stage,
they float across this cavernous papery room to you.
And maybe they oscillate and strike a chord with you,
or maybe not,
but my currency is words-
pinpricks of soul
shaped and formed and melded with time,
and it matters how we spend them.
Page-leaving nib hovers-
the hesitation of an afterthought
replete with intentions,
trapped and bound in ink
stops and sinks your pen to the
sheet once more.
But an afterthought
isn’t necessarily a reflection
of less importance,
a deflection or performance
disjointed and detracting
from all that you’ve said before.
By afterthought I mean something more-
maybe even
the thing you wanted to
say all along
but have only just summoned the courage
to write now that the space is
nearly gone.
The post scriptum is the preface
which took time and bravery
to develop and emerge-
the place where all of the ‘almosts’
of previous lines combine, gain momentum
until you use ‘P.S’ to ‘mention’
the point of each and every stacked
letter and word which preceded:
teetering under the weight of meaning unheeded.
‘I miss you’.
Thoughts distilled, post scriptum.
Hidden to high up
eyes, tiny whelk shell carried
by the tide and time…
Playing hide and seek
in Iceland- turns out glaciers
aren’t good at hiding..
We hold on tight to
the memories which we make
-or do they make us?
Beneath winter moon
-serene- blue lagoon glows,
seething, bubbling.