The Locked Door

After several, searching attempts
Tilda concluded that – without a key
There was no way possible to open the door
It was late, dark, rather chilly
The cheeks of her face felt cold

Now, aware of a woman walking towards her
Noticing how the woman’s hips swayed rhythmically
In time with music that Tilda could not hear
She felt awkward, standing outside on the path
Under the glow of lamp light

She tried her best to look nonchalant
Which, in such circumstances
Is hard to fake
Thrusting both hands into the warm depths
Of her pockets
She held them perfectly still
Wondering, if she should affect a switch
Hold her hands clasped behind her back instead

Randomly, Tilda kicked at a small roughened stone
In front of her – and to her shock
Watched, as it it rattled down the path
Towards the woman

With an about-turn, embarrassed
Tilda whistled two notes through dry lips
The second note faded into the night air
Quickly, she abandoned the idea of more whistling
Regretting having started in the first place

Continue reading “The Locked Door”

Lost in Pixel Park

Tilda was lost
Trapped
Without doubt

She knew she had already been this way
She recognised the lamp post
The trees, and the wrought iron fence
Encircling the city park
Can you be “lost” within a familiar scene?

The snake that had bled-out
Onto the path
After being stamped on by Tilda
The one that had slithered out
From under the bushes
This had disappeared
That was the one thing, different

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So Often, You’re in My Dreams

Yes, I forgive you
Henceforth, finally
You need not carry
Such a hefty burden of guilt
Let it fall away, leave it behind
For you my sweet, are forgiven

In my night dreams
We are together
Once more as friends
Better friends than ever before
Adventuring, finding ourselves in plenty
Of quite remarkable scrapes!

We’ve got each other’s backs
Sometimes, you lead the way
Other times, it’s me
Climbing over buildings
Falling to the ground
Driving, along familiar narrow streets

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A Way of Loving

L-R, Antoine, Georges, Pascale and Claude
Secretly, Pascale loved these three men
Loved them separately and equally
Dividing out her heart between them
Secretly, each one of these men loved Pascale

Had Antoine, Georges and Claude known
Of this individual loving each one received
Would they have felt upset?
Would rivalry have emerged amongst these friends
Heralding a tragic end, to bow the head in grief?

How could we know and by what method precisely?
By the magic of science and the power of a little faith!
We can join with them in their dreams
Deep into the night, hours into their sleep
Burrowing into their subconscious minds

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Pamela’s Game

I was alone at home, loading my camera with film. It was the spring of the same year I turned thirteen. It was the holidays, I felt restless and my best friend Bjorn was away with his parents in a caravan somewhere.

It was nearly midday and Mother and Father were still out food-shopping, so I decided to visit Auntie and Uncle because they only lived along the road and they often called me their favourite niece.

I think I was their only niece. Anyway, I’d tried to call them, but they hadn’t answered the phone so I left a note on the kitchen table to say where I was, slung the camera around my neck and headed down the path and out through the front gate.

Upon my arrival, I walked through calling-out their names, checking each room but they weren’t inside so I went out onto the patio. That’s when I heard some noises, strange sounds coming from somewhere in the garden; a mixture of pain, pity and joy.

Uncle Randolph had been married before and was quite a bit older than Auntie Pamela. Once, I’d heard Mother tell Father that Auntie Pamela had told her that Uncle Randolph was young at heart and had money.

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Boy of the Sea

I first found George at Weymouth
Washed-up on the sandy Weymouth beach
He seemed happy enough, if a little soaked through
I asked him of his mother and father, of their precise whereabouts

With a straight, outstretched arm George pointed towards the horizon
Where the light blue met the darker blue
“My mother is of the sea,” he told me
“My father, once a fisher, now lies still and under the seabed.”

“Oh, you poor little whelk,” I told him
“Look, you must be here for a reason
Do you understand? Perhaps now’s your time
To spend a moment ashore?”

George looked around
First left then right, upon the people
Families were scattered across the beach
There was also the man from the circus

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Hand to Cheek

Yes, so, it’s true
The photo
It’s from a long time ago
But there’s Gwen, there
I’m working from left to right, you understand
Excluding the blurry man in the far-off background
Shuffling out of the photo
Looking like he has an apple stuffed into his mouth
Looking like a cooked pig’s head

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