A demon walks

Just behind me
Out of sight
In the dark

Haunting footsteps echo
Shadows of dreams
Linger in memory

I feel him
Edging ever closer
His power grows

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Wistful whisky warmth
This thoughtful thurible throws
Fragrant frankincense

Athens of the North

City
Of memories
Coloured
With tones
Of sorrow
Old streets
Never walked
Hands entwined
Sights
Unseen
I haunt
Dark alleys
Dreaming
Of futures
Never arrived

Alone looking up
Countless possibilities
Bright against the dark.

Conversation with my son

“What is your favourite book?” He asks me.
I try to answer, but discover that is is one of those things which changes over time, what might be my favourite book at one time might not be my favourite at others. Some which are perennial favourites become coloured with sadness. I have to learn that sharing my favourite things with others sometimes means that they will touch them, not just literally.

I ask him if I can have a top ten. He approves.

Three of them are books I have read to him. The others I have shared with other people, sometimes never to see them again.

“What is your favourite colour?”

Oh. I think. Difficult. Then decide on burgundy.

“What is your favourite song?”

Again I find I can’t answer directly. Its not that I am indecisive, maybe it is, its just that I can’t put my finger on one. Just one? Can I have a top ten for this too? 

Once again I ask and he approves.

I am lost in the words of songs which make me want to curl up and weep for all the memories they stir within me.

So many songs which are favourites because of the memories associated with them, or which then become unbearable because of the emotions.

What if he asks me who my favourite person is? How do I answer? That I love him as much as his sister but that they both mean so much to me in their own different ways? What about those I have chosen to love? 

Loving my children didn’t involve any decision, it just was. Did loving anyone else require a consious choice? Did I decide to love them or did I just decide to accept that I love and therefore accept the pain which goes with it? Do they mean more even though they are no longer in my life? Have they meant more? Or is it just different?

I find myself adrift in an ocean of memories, all because of three simple questions from one little boy.

Feet

Photographs of muddy feet
Show that once we chanced to meet
And stood together toe to toe
Now journeying apart we go.

Skater-she

I will never be as cool as she;
Sliding effortlessly,
Ripped jeans, tight tee,
Hair blowing in the breeze,
Smile betraying heart at ease.

—
Ode to the girl who skated past me at lunchtime and smiled at me.

Rain again

All too often
The sky forgets
To stay up there
And falls to earth

Deadly

In pride at what I had achieved
I became slothful,
Prone to gluttony, indulging in my riches.
Soon the sparkle left and envy set in
As looking with lustful eyes
Upon the works of others, filled with greed,
I felt such wrath that theirs was more than mine.