between sinew and spirit,
trapped between fires,
and lowtide on the turn,
a scramble to pull

loose of the heavy chain
of the jamb
or be drowned in blood,
adrift in the spiritflicker,
burned in the wash.

I)
Each recounted word is a stroke.
Whatever stroke away
undertow roars stronger,
pulls back into the old pattern
of disappointment and regret,
all I could give the shore
was “lovely and pleasant”.

I lift these words
past the crests
into rise and fall,
repurposed, reimagined
regular rhythm onwards.

Though these recorded words
are on the abandoned shore,
a tenuous link to a life
best left to its own devices,
that dwindles with each stroke away.

stride differently
step without the roll
maybe heel down first
not ball, incline to outside
or inside edge, wear down
leather differently,
walk with an edge.

Way I walk too well known
for surprise, danger or risk.
Have to take chances
gamble, though, not familiar
or comfortable this is good.

Step change and thought,
if think as you step
around, change step,
how thought is reached,
how words reach page.

St. George was Turkish,
I have Dane ancestors.
Our Queen is German.
My dad was Welsh.
Our favourite dish
is Chicken Tikka Masala.

Celebrate impurity
with impunity and dignity.
Mongrel culture lives.

Other things can be drugs.
I decide I don’t need a tab,
yet, get dragged back
by curiosity and hope,
to find the empty still there,
pushes ever wider into need.

Go cold turkey. Try it.
You did it once and the crave went.
That crave is now demolished
and the space used for other
interests, the gap filled. Try it.

Wean yourself off the hunger,
desperate need for the reaction:
laughter in your head and stomach,
endorphins in overdrive,
frisson at the good looking,
a wanted warm hand in yours.

Take time away from its pull,
render the tides inert,
turn your eyes to other sights,
tread fresh earth, let others entice.
New people, new places,
other resolutions.

Expect us as you find us.”

my late mam says to expected afternoon guests,
as they sit on the morning polished
sofa,

their rarely seen fine rose design china coffee cups,
jug of creme, full sugar basin, Bourbons
on one side plate,

Fairy Cakes on another on the freshly Lemon pledged dark wood table,

shoes on newly vacuumed Axminster carpet,
as they look on the spruced lawn,

through the shiny white French windows,
and see the sun shine on dustless surfaces

far down
into the pit of hell
as it is possible to go
and still see  stars shining.

I have been as far up
into the spit of sky
as it is possible to go
and still see the wood for trees.

listen to tiny voices
on massive screens
as she does not like subtitles.

A better speaker hangs above
the easy chair curled into
by our ginger cat. This is
a cat house and her beauty
cannot be disturbed.

ginger cat stares up
ready to harvest
the spring fledglings
who fall into its teeth

As if a Lion who waits
outside a hospital
for the harvest of newborn
babies on their way home.

At sixteen she is precise
with her makeup,
and dances to stay slim.
“You could be a model,”
her nannan tells her.

Carefully she opens the fridge door
for the umpteenth
to catch the little man
who switches on the light.

It must be true because
she wants to believe it,
and her mam’s boyfriend,
adult and streetwise
who told her, can be trusted.