On the Green

Guiltily he picks at a hole in the knee of his jeans and looks up from that same daydream once again, while something unseen moves through the room which leaves his stomach tense and lip bitten.

Nothing will take away the past, but no matter how long ago it was, in the mind it is but a moment ago, vivid, real, reinforced by countless hours reliving the same memories. He shudders and pulls the blanket around his shoulders, staring back into the void.

There is no peace from the labyrinth once you cross the threshold, once you lose your way. He knows that the only way out is to go forward, but what horrors it contains he cannot tell.

The void calls once more, the delicate seduction of the voice of memory, that sweet oblivion of self-destruction.

Come to me my love, and we shall walk together again. All you have to do is remember how it felt.

He tries to resist but the memories are strong, beautiful, sweet memories of sunlight and summer days, walking gently through the park while the wind dances in her hair and her skirts flow like waterfalls of silk.

His resolve is undone, and drifting ever on in her arms he remembers the taste of strawberries on her lips, gently mixed with champagne.

The cold creeps in under the edge of the blanket, but he remains unaware, its tendrils wrapping around his throat, sneaking under his clothes until he starts to fall asleep.

So tired now,’ he thinks. ‘Perhaps we should go indoors?

No, stay with me here, my love. Stay with me and hold me, don’t ever let me go.’


Sunday morning

On Sunday morning the coffee always tastes different, as if infused with memories wafting towards me, mingling with the notes of lonesome country, filling my head with daydreams. Each drop reaching my lips the warmth of a thousand kisses which were and a infinite number which were never meant to be. My hands caress the cup as I pull myself into the corner and remember what it was like to hold you, to be held by you, while silken cascades of liquid across my tongue recall the smooth softness of your skin. The harsh lamplight’s glare scatters in the ripples, like city lights we never kissed beneath and settles to the glowing light of the same moon under which we found our peace for just a moment. Deeply breathing steamy air, I remember the smell of your hair the summer you made my body your home, and across the years your voice still whispers those words you will never say again.

To Moth

A moth flits from the open window and lands on my knee. It tickles. Does he know how short his life will be or wonder where he is going? What the meaning of his existence is? No. He just ‘moths’. Action born of instinct. To do. Not to think.

How quickly I could end him.

I don’t, and he moths away. Fluttering his little brown wings without a care in the world.

Meanwhile I am left sitting looking at him. Trying to work out if it is possible to just ‘human’ and what just humaning is.

Is there a way to be which just embraces every moment as it comes, moves from moment to moment in blissful ignorance?

The moth comes back wondering if my bare leg is something interesting.

Then flits away again.

I sit and read for a little. Wondering if this is what humaning is. At least in part. Sharing experiences. Whether messages and conversations are like the moths as they dance around a candle. Or am I the candle? Burning slowly. Not wanting to burn too fast, too bright, lest I run out of fuel, waiting for someone to come along and snuff me out.
That lingering smoke smell the afterthought of my existence. The reminder of my light and presence. Reminder of the light that was.

The moth flies out of the window.

I hope it finds another moth. It may not be the most beautiful, elegant or intelligent of creatures but it is, just like me. Doing what it does.

Sometimes finding what it is looking for, even when it isn’t looking for it.


I wrote this some time ago when thinking and writing a little more than I have been of late as a message to somone I hold very dear to me, someone I always will hold dear to me, always. 

It strikes me that what I said then applies so appropriately to how I am and what is, that it should be something I am more open about. To be, to Moth, to Human; these are things which should come naturally yet we constantly fight against them. 

I hope that for at least a moment every day, with or without anyone or anything else in my life, I might be able to find the ability to just BE.


Bare feet carry her softly down the corridor. Gentle curves displayed through thin cotton, translucent in the glow of the early morning sun, bursting over the horizon, chasing away the last vestiges of night.

Coffee scent begins to fill the air. Hot steam, mixed with jasmine billows from the bathroom.

The freshness of a new day, aches to be appreciated.

Because I needed to write something different. 🙂