The oven speaks to me in riddles before termination, Me Me calling to attention, ME ME EMPTY ME it calls to anyone present; I am present, I am coming, I am the baker, the maker of sweet dreams: sugar, honey, butter and oats; (golden syrup would also do) turned in the oven at 180C into the sweetest of loves there will ever be; ah, Jack ye ol’ ripper did not name these little beauties, the flapping of wings did, though … Ah, the wait for the cake (cake?) the final step in my love make ing, the wait the wait the … wait for the first kiss of her sweet lips
Twenty winters later the dreams are gone, no memories remain of why, of how, Oh why? Did I stumble, stumble and fall for another, another land near but far, fields of green like green fields forests like woods, mere copses lakes wet but oh, so far apart and without paths and access through private lands of private people, and ladders to climb from the bottom rung.
Twenty winters later the dreams are gone, memories absent without leave, permission to depart rejected by … the Fearful Department of Unexpected Outcomes Ltd; no jig brings joy no gaol but chains welded firm by firm hands.
Twenty winters later the dreams are done, Twenty winters further & all will be gone.
culturally deprived, my language lost in time, maybe possibly unlikely to be found on foreign soil, bound between foreign trees, soaring in foreign skies like birds of other kinds;
culturally deprived, my identity lost in space, maybe possibly unlikely to be found in foreign lands, nailed to foreign walls, stamped into passport in blue like red without a union flag;
culturally deprived, a self lost in otherness, maybe possibly unlikely – ever to be found.
She comes in darkness with candled crown, in our darkest of days She walks among us, the bringer of light She carry us all, through the shrinking days towards rebirths of earth, heart, and life thirst. She departs in darkness but leaves a lasting light – behind.
Warts and all, you will take me; go then and seek solace in my lost soul, find comfort behind my floppy ears and tingling fingers; find purpose where ever be found, where for ever be found, where the forever is found; that is where I will be – waiting
Warts and all, you will take me, make me find me a soul and proper ears, steady hands and a heart to share.
Ahhhhh, if only … I had warts and all … a lost soul and … ears, unsteady hands …
You would take me, take me. You would. Would… take me …
white, like snowdrops in March the spider’s web glistens, frozen threads woven for warm summer’s day abandoned to the song of winter, crystals swivel and swerve in a sparkly river dance finding by mere chance a place for a final rest before the new ray of day turns the virgin land of man into mush.
I follow the train of thought back to the front to find no locomotive, no locomotion, levers left beside a broken track; a cowering figure covering eyes ears, mouth; … a piercing peep high above the low clouds, I ascend through white waters rafting higher and higher on the continuing canal of promise; no backwards only frontwards the new train of thought in flight towards the newborn bird of prey calling my name, calling for me to let my wings unfold as I surf the swell of possibilities, loop-de-loop the spiralling sky towards infinity.
I showered my walls in golden rays, in streaks of golden dew; descended towards a scent roasted, toasted – a life of joy abundant.
Oh, runny honey silken money where would we be without these our gilded bees buzzing from plant to trees from houses without fees to our own jared realities.
Runny honey settled down, firm in mind and firm in flesh as pipes crack and concrete crumble; heat-less hell frozen over.
I shower my walls in golden rays, in streaks of golden dew; descend towards a scent of sewage, raw – a life sequestered and scanty; dreams of buzzing bees dwindling.
