Monday, 17 November 2014

Too Late. 
See, my hands are very small:
I use the backs of them
To rub my eyes. 

I didn't realise I would grow
And have to become someone,
Divided and rejected. 

All these whirling minds
As sharp as stars,
But out of sync. 

I couldn't open my book
Until too old and nearly gone,
Now, I begin to read. 

See, my wormy thumbs
Have revealed two leaves
For me to contemplate. 

The first tells of the disconnect
Between rocks and moon,
I feel heavy with guilt. 

The second has coloured in my heart:
I recognise it,
My face burns.
The Search  
What are you doing down there?
I'm looking for something.
Is it lost?
It is not yet found. 
Might I help you search the quiet?
Yes, please close your eyes.
How long will it take?
We cannot know. 
Are you sure that it is missing?
There is a space abandoned.
Will you try somewhere else?
Here may be very close. 
You seem to hesitate.
There is a faint aroma of honeysuckle.
What is that to you?
A connection. 
Shall I now close the door?
My bones are secure beneath the silt.
Then I will leave.
Yes, thank you, and thank them all.
Year 1 
Curling fern toes
Cheery star fingers
Without agenda
Signing to the world. 
Insistent helplessness
Secure that neither
Cry nor fault
Will deter protection. 
And who would betray that trust
When reward offers no object?
Not the red eyed mother,
Up with the moon.

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