Cracked Idols 

We drew them on yellow card.

Gold glitter for hair, proportions all over the place,

We drew them taller.

Then upon presentation we felt

The praise of Kings and Queens.

A knighthood in the form of the kitchen wall.

Out of pencilled lines emerged

Discernible people with thought

And speech bubbles of their own.

Aesop taught us to make decisions so

We never understood how anyone

could make a bad one.

Looking at the world I noticed

The poorly glued fractures and places

Where scissors skewed off track.

Carnage.

We looked to our paragons

But we’d outgrown their wisdom.

Betrayed by coal disguised as

Inflammable diamonds.

I can see you now.

Your sharp edges glisten and cut,

My ochre glazed eyes question

Every wrong move you make.

Our paper dolls crumpled.

We noticed the cracks in our idols

And suddenly the whole world fell

Apart with only our own hands to catch us.

Bruised and broken we fell

And got back up again.

A letter to July

Dear July,

Your warmth is welcomed by those

Who need rejuvenation or have stress to dispose,

But it’s during this month I’ve never felt more lost.

You took away my map and gave me time,

A bitter deal for an explorer who’s trying to climb

Up to the top of the world.

I’ve just unloaded a milestone from my back,

And there’s an even bigger one in September to unpack,

But you insist in blocking the road.

You ask, why can’t you just be languid?

But your summer heat fills me with anguish,

And i’m consumed with future possibilities.

Some would kindly suggest

That It’s healthy I take a rest

After all these stones weigh more than anticipation.

But I can’t seem to see the end

When you use the light to suspend

Every hour of every day.

Please July, i’m being eaten,

Chewed up and digested by your tedium.

Left as a useless pulp for the calendar to mock.

You leave me in a constant state of limbo.

A theist might call that the window

Between heaven and hell.

I’ve never heard a more accurate description

And I spit on this prescription

Of rest that i'm forced to take.

My limbs can deal with the break

But my mind continues to ache

As past and future perpetually haunt its cells.

Forgive me for giving you all the blame

For this restless tempest that resides in my brain.

I guess all I can do is wait.

But I know that no month is flawless,

So don’t fret for i’ll be writing to August,

Until September rolls around.

Granddaughter

Wellington boots stood tall like soldiers.

The words ‘traipse’’ and ‘mud’

And ‘don’t’ shouted by a pointed finger.

From being swaddled in towels

Far too big and the smell of coal and flames.

‘This is my granddaughter.’

You’d proudly proclaim.’

A garden stretches further than my years,

Strolling to the village, with a smooth hand

Enclosed in age and wisdom.

Chanting ‘Thirty days hath September.’

The timer ticks. The cake is done.

‘This is my granddaughter,

My only one.’

The butcher's, and grocer’s and tea-party,

Are now distant in mile and mind.

September’s days may be blurry, legs faulty,

But you still place kisses where

The bees have stung.

‘This is my granddaughter, her name

Is on the tip of my tongue’

The timer moves faster than before,

So I remind you not to burn the cake.

I do more of the talking but I don’t mind,

As long as we can sit together among daisies,

Grass and snowdrops heavy with dew.

‘This is my…’

I finish the sentence for you.

The weather-vane stands proudly

And reminds me of years passed.

You look, but your memory fails to see.

The wind changes and my spine shivers

With the fear that I’ll never hear you say

‘This is my great-granddaughter’

And watch her as she plays.

When the thud of the soil

Rings out from the churchyard

Is my title buried and laid to rest?

I dread the day I choke out the words

‘This is my grandmother...

She was the best’