Poem 72, day 74: The Vehicles Savoured Their Chance to be Still

The Vehicles Savoured Their Chance to be Still


As the air grows warmer,

Busy with spring,

With an oncoming summer,

It’s worth rising early;


Catching the morning

While the dew grips to grass,

The vehicles savouring,

Their chance to be still.

Poem 71, day 72: I Thought of You

I Thought of You


I thought of you last night.

Tall, gracious, kind.

Saw those days of childhood when your home was a special place,

And the smell of lavender in the bathroom never failed.

The organ in the hallway waiting each time with its large

Brown hood rolled down.

Your fingers were art themselves.

Guiding paintbrushes, needles, notes,

With a touch that could never be taught.

The shell of your weakened body didn’t stop you,

Not really, it told a story that hadn’t reached the end;

There were mornings to be viewed for a while longer,

Alarms to ring at six thirty am in time for breakfast at seven.

Walks to take along the route that recognises you by now,

And expects your steps upon the grass.


It did all stop, of course. It had to.

You’d hardly even know now, the overgrown fields

Where balls once bounced as your dog played twice a day.

I barely knew it myself. But then, as I thought of you,

And drives in your van that had chairs, a table,

Even a bed;

Each place went you went counted as a thread, a tie,

A knot wound far too tightly to ever be undone.


Poem 68, day 69: The Shop Assistant

The Shop Assistant


The queue almost stretched to the end of the shop.

Not once did he look over his glasses.

He feared people, and so he took his time.

Individually packed items into bags made of plastic.

He wasn’t thinking of the potatoes, or washing powder,

Or the tomato sauce he packed.

He was thinking of home, of his mother,

His elderly mother whos hips made it difficult to walk.

She’d be there now, with only a television for a friend,

Waiting for him to return.


His downward glance was interrupted

By the thrust of a hand, grabbing a bag.

‘Might as well do it myself.’

The noise of people, it grew louder. The mumbling of

Irritation rolled along the queue to his ears,

And he tried, really hard to think of something else.

‘Hurry up!’ said the hand,

But as much as he wanted to, and he really did,

He couldn’t go any faster.

Or even mumble a word.

Poem 67, day 68: Smoke Rings of their Own

Smoke Rings of their Own


The smoke became lost in the steam.

We lit candles, turned off the lights,

Watched clouds stamp and roll their way

Across a sky nudged with the navy of night;

Intruded by a moon too large for complete darkness.

The candles didn’t flicker, or dance, or even make

The slightest shudder.

They were as still as our bodies that lay like a painted picture.

The links of our arms, thighs, hands barely visible.

The water softer than skin.

The movement on the tiles-

Shadows playing, kissing,

Came from somewhere outside this room.

Peeking their way through the glass.

Blowing smoke rings of their own.



Poem 66, day 67: From the Back of the Wardrobe

From the Back of the Wardrobe


Today I pulled a pair of trainers from the back of the wardrobe.

They were buried beneath a pile of fallen jackets, stilettos, boots

caked with mud from a sodden winter. They weren’t white anymore,

these trainers. More a cream stamped with brown. Soles scuffed,

unknown stains upon the toes, is that coffee? My feet slide into

the moulds as if they had never left. The laces, tucked beneath the tongue,

hidden from the start, are the only reminder of something once new.

Clean, neat, brand spanking new.