Wednesday, December 05, 2007

The evenings splash down on you from nowhere. Like the falling curtain of an orange coloured play. Jumping into crisp warm clothes after bath.

Blue of Nivea. Green of Boroline.

Peeping nostrils. Soft white quilts.

And more walks.

Saturday, December 01, 2007

To Medusa

You remind me of the first time it rained.

The first peck of a cold lip on the boiling broth that was.

That would have been.

Had you not rained.


And there always will be that fear,

That you, in fact, could have not been.

To somewhere else you would roam, on a chariot of lightning.

Showering your coldness,


When I see people speak of you in fear,

Of how you could freeze them with one look at your motionless eyes,

Of stories of warriors and kings that looked at you

And saw no more of me,


Know that I’d looked at you of choice

Not scared of the serpents that twirled and hissed

For to your coldness so stony and grim

I owe my shape and warmth.