I Found You

(Make sure to click on all the links!)

I found you in words - screens and keys and who would know a whole another world.

And you have such great wit,
you have been a cornerstone when luck and life jumped ship.

You write very well,
you can embrace beauty in the stories that you tell,
sense and such and love in words and all said very well.

You weave clever tales,
voice and music lift you up and fill your very sails.

Angels walk with you,
you have learnt of monster love in all that you've been through,
faith and joy and gorgeous words are what I glimpse in you.

You know stars - you I know can understand,
life and love and losing stuff and all that comes around...

And you?
Brought to me through hellish news? Not from happy easy talk and hi there how are you?

But your words - your strength and your love,
you are making friends in ways which never was your choice.

May we help you light your days for you inspire us.

Thank you, thank you, thank you too for all that you have brought...

Lucky me I found your voice - each and every one... x

Night Pirates

7pm.
Top of the house and wooden boards and weary nodding head,
cotton pjs, frozen toes and climb the stairs to bed.

Water, book and ted,
yellow lamp and baby gate they haven't taken yet,
nearly 6 and far too big to sleep before it's late.

With pirates in your head -
scale a wall and creep a floor and seize an end of bed,
nudge and feel and steal from dreams and claim you for themselves.

Their wooden ship,
steering wheel and windswept deck,
rope and rigging you can climb to clouds and back again.

Fishing nets of shark and fin,
killer whale and giant squid,
wicker creel, electric eel and poison jelly fish.

No boy need have any fear when he has pirate friends.

Of freckled cheek,
ragged hair and dirty feet,
threadbare shorts and torn shirt and neck-scarf underneath.

Worn steps to lower deck,
midnight feast to catch your breath,
breaded fish and salted chips and every man himself.

(You can eat your very fill then do it all again).

And treasure chest?
Keep it safe and under bed,
never told to not a soul and keep it to yourself.

Wooden bed by wooden eaves,
stone built house by pebble beach,
nearly 6 and pirate tricks and brightest, bravest dreams... x

One Year Ago

A year ago today I lost my lovely Gran at the age of 90. She lived a long and happy life and kept well all her days - until shortly before she died. The poem below was written whilst she was very ill in hospital, and it was clear to everyone who loved her that she would not be able to come home. I read it a short time later at her funeral.

12 months of writing later I don't think this is my best poem, however it will always remain close to my heart, and it rekindled a passion for poetry which has lead to creating my blog - of which I am very proud.

So here we are, for you...

Gran

When my little boy was 2 years old
I took him to the cottage at Chippermore,
on new boy legs and running fast
he raced ahead into my past.

Played on rocks, threw stones to the sea
climbed the hill and skint a knee,
I did the same on holiday
another year, another day.

I wanted to take my man and boy
to glimpse a time that I enjoyed,
you've left me such a treasure chest
of happy days that I know best.

Walks to see the daffodils
Happy Birthday and Easter things,
otter on the rock at Monreith Bay
paper hats on Christmas Day.

A G&T, a glass of wine
lentil soup at dinner time,
Care Bears, Caledonia Road
hat and gloves when it has snowed.

A rolled newspaper beats a paper fish
a chicken bone can make a wish,
tennis on TV all of June
cake mix and a wooden spoon.

My brother, my cousins, my Mum and Dad
know why these things make me sad,
but just for today, a little while
and then again they'll make me smile.

And Gran I wanted you to know
that these are places I'll still go,
so that in years and days to be
my children know Great Gran through me.

The Fallow

From the nook of the tree at the top of the field,
the writer spoke to the view of the sea,
"How may I be all the mother they need,
when words have taken hold of me?"

The sea answered not but the fallow said -
A mother first, so words must wait.

She frowned at this, it pleased her not,
she asked the gate by the sunny spot -
"To wait to write while children grow?
I'll lose the words, forget them all."

The gate answered not but the fallow said -
How can you lose what's in your head?

So she replied -

"This work, this life, these chores abound,
take of the time and the voice I have found,
push me and pull me and tire me out,
drag it from mind and then water it down."

The fallow said -
Stop - ask yourself what you're writing about.

No fertile mind can continually sow, 
absent of rest and un-wearied by woe,
artists and makers and writers of words, 
cannot glimpse beauty or pain in the world,
without being daughters or mothers or sons, 
lovers or fighters or babes in the womb,
husbands or wives or the friend on the phone,
nurse at the bedside or chaperone home,
giddy with laughter and rested from work, 
bright in the morning and warm in the sun.

To recognise beauty you have to live first.

So put down your paper, take leave of your pen, 
look to your child, remember her name, 
speak to your loved one, return to your way, 
empty your mind and make best of your day.

You shall grow rich in all you have to say.

And she did -
walked through the wood and remembered to live.

Then later?

Found the fallow sown,
vibrant, healthy life to show,
active, working, busy growth,
sprouting, shooting, row on row on row.

Idle, rested, fertile earth once more sprung green and gold... x

Wash Day

The washing hung outside most days,

sun and cloud and sometimes rain,
wind which blew it inside out and near and far away.

Like sheets from 29,
found their way from off the line,
fishing boat and tangled up and rigging wrap-around.

"Quite the fright for Jimmy Guthrie walking home from town."

And Eilidh's jeans,
fray and dye and rip the seams,
told her mother seagulls pecked and tore right through the knees.

"Eilidh darling what a sight you're never wearing these."

Then Andy Green - office worker, No 3.
grey and blue and white and check and long and short in sleeve,
20 shirts and 7 ties and 5 day working week.

"Andy only does a washing 12 times every year."

And Shona Wright - baby twins at No. 9,
cotton cloth and nappy pin and always turned out fine,
whitest linen in the row but never any time.

"When it rains there's terry towelling hanging up inside."

And you can walk,
cobbled pavement, harbour wall,
iron poles and coloured stone and painted wooden doors.

Length of line on eastern coast,
duck and weave and step through clothes,
hung to dry with passers-by and northern wind to blow... x

I was entertained on a recent visit to Cellardyke on the East Neuk of Fife,
by the communal washing line on the harbour walk. It is just as pictured below.

Harbour Washing Lines, Cellardyke, East Neuk
Artwork by Justine Marjoribanks

Space

If you were here I'd hand you anger on a plate,

shield my eyes and step away,

tell you 'smash the lot the floor is slate'.

And that would be OK.

And we could walk - through the wood towards the slope,

only air and land would hear you call -

cry and shout and swear and break and fall.

And it's OK to fall, it's OK to hit the floor,

tear the earth and open every door - 

rage and hate and all you've come to know.

And you could curse the sky,

life and moments ticking by,

every single living thing that passes near your eye.

Why me? Why oh why oh why oh why?

My girl, my heart, my soul, my all,

why were you the one to die?

And you could stay all day, every tear you have to shed,

well and fall and drip and run away - 

grass and soil, slope and wind and rain.

And one day to the sea,

wave and water, salt and breeze,

wild ocean full of life and full of mother's grief.

And heaven and earth?

What of those who're stuck in hell?

Need today for answers, rage and space?

If you were here I'd hold your hand then turn and walk away... x

Image by Three Zero Photography

I am linking this post to Prose For Thought

Son Of The Sea

It started months ago,

seasick feeling right about the time she missed a course,

tossed and turned and worn out and thrown overboard.

And shiny, straight hair gone,

damp and ragged wild curls,

fitting - he said - of a shipwrecked girl lost in a storm.

Washed from bath taps gold,

heavy, solid, huge and old,

tub with feet and brimming over salted water flow.

And she a fan of fish,

silver scales and tail to twitch,

these days from the outhouse freezer they ate little else.

In a garden overgrown,

pebbles, driftwood, paving stones,

foam and seaweed glimpsed through cracks where only grass should grow.

And sand blew under door,

narrow hall and tiny porch,

battered, dusty, leaded windows looking to the shore.

Their home,

dark at night and built of stone,

edge of land and edge of life and edge of all she'd known.

Love or lights or who could say but something brought her north.

But she feared that to come,

9 months gone and kicking limbs,

hope and pain and mother love and all unknown things.

And a gush - like waves,

throw you up and toss you down and lift you once again,

home and warm and safe and dry seem very far away.

Violent - bloody - pain.

If you live you never wish to know its like again,

flounder then and cry out loud and push and grasp your way.

To newborn wails,

fists and feet and angry face,

flesh and bone and life and love and sea and stars and grace.

Sailors son born safe to shore in howling wind and gale... x

N.B. My 'Stories Of The Sea' posts are entirely fictitious and are my current, early attempts at story telling. My own son was born in a warm, safe and brightly lit hospital theatre.

Thanks to my talented workmate Colin Millar for the use of his beautiful photography. You can find Colin at Three Zero Photography or view more of his work on flickr.

The Number 9

Black cat 9 lives,

Goal! Striker number 9.

9 planets solar system,

9 US baseball innings.

Cloud 9, can't get higher,

9 Christian angel choirs.

Dressed up to the nines,

Party like it's '99.

Scrum half rugby pitch,

Upside down number 6.

9 months mothers womb,

99 red balloons.

9 months bright life,

Off to bed sleep tight.

999

The call no mother should have to make on a Saturday Night.

9 days of an auction for Matilda Mae,

Please help make a difference today.

Life After Death

Written as a Britmums Guest Post

You were a writer I believe,

books and letters kept for years,

birthday cards and diaries and date and time and year.

And inside paper sleeves,
"To Miss Ellie, Happy Birthday 1983",

people tell me there is much of you they see in me.

And how I wish that you were here,

fit and well with time to read,

words and thoughts and verse and stories pouring out of me.

And from where on earth?

It seems to me I found my voice the very day you left,

woke up, stood up, straightened up and looked for something else.

Life after death.

And how can I say loss?

When you have left me something I had very near forgot,

lost and drowned and watered down and lately all but gone.

My voice.

My hopes, my thoughts,

minds-eye, daydream, storybook and song.

A place to go,

space and page where words belong,

friends whom I could never have begun to think I'd know.

And I've learnt more of love,

in this last year since you have left than all the years before,

life and death and what is never really ours to hold.

We rent in life - we do not own.

So 90 years old,

days lived well and journeys told,

when you left me here I wonder did you always know?

You closed your eyes and fell sleep and that's the day I woke... x

For my Gran. 
30th June 1921 - 21st May 2012. 
The memory of whom, in large part, inspires every word I write.

The Walled Garden

It wasn't there before.

Or if it was I don't recall,

door of wood in wall of stone and long since overgrown.

But a moment from home,

bluebell wood and photographs and come on time to go,

6pm and dinner now and starting to be cold.

Then a door.

Stood ajar as if we'd seen the likes of it before,

path and branch and hardly need to duck your head at all.

Feet away - no more.

Another world beyond -

overgrown wild thorns,

garden tangled dense and old and kept inside 4 walls.

And I held my breath,

willed you then to step inside and look on something else,

take us from a grey and dull and ordinary day.

For I told you before,

that where we live is very old,

horse and pig and sheep and cow and tractor trail and trough.

And memories - left in stone.

From a garden of old - rack and ruin overgrown,

What it looked like yesteryear now heaven only knows,

fountain, lawn and flowerbed, and path and tree and rose.

It wasn't there before.

Or if it was I don't recall.

Wall and walk and wild wood but didn't see the door.

But I saw you like Tom, 

window on a magic world,

out of bed and out of time and out of all you know... x

Although I have searched the internet thoroughly before and found nothing,

this evening I searched again and immediately found this...

Townend House and Cottage (source Wikipedia)

Hugh Glover held the lands of Townend circa 1701-4 and in 1733 William Kelso of Dankeith sold the lands to George Boyd of East Overloan Farm. William Hay Boyd, Esq. of Her Majesty's 20th Regiment of Infantry in the Crimea^[23] and was the owner of Townend House (NS 37652 31552) and estate in 1839.^[13] Townend is an 18th century building with a Victorian Italianate wing. A dated lintel in the walled garden may have come from an earlier building on the site; the old stables, were converted into a small dwelling in the 1960s.^[24] In recent times Townend House has functioned as a nursing home,^[4] Townend Cottage, circa 1810, situated in the village was its former dower house. The Hay-Boyds gave land for the village hall, a school, and a garden next to the church.^[23]

I'm so proud to have been shortlisted in the BIBs Fresh Voice Category. 

If you enjoy my writing please take a moment to vote for me via the link below...

 

When The Boat Comes In

It rained all day.
By 2pm the water climbed the kitchen table legs,
Cotton stripy apron wet and dripping from a peg.

It had happened again.

House by the harbour wall,
waves to crash the very door,
sea and sand and salt and surf and solid things no more.

No. 2,
front lawn, pretty view,
blowing gale and need for nets and spotted welly boots.

And salt made a mess of the floor,
skirting boards and cottage door,
worn and rough and by their best and these days looking old.

Rather like your boat.
Mend the deck and patch the holes,
rum and buoys and threadbare sofa, sprung and soft and torn.

Three years dead and gone - final ship set sail from home,
"Get me outta here my lass and let me back aboard,
water, waves and fishing nets and deck are all I know."

Bless you Dad you loved to sail but never liked a storm.

So I'll put the kettle on - tell the neighbours stories when they ask what caused the flood,
mop the floor and pour the tea and leave it to get cold,
catch a fish in plastic pail and fling it out the door.

I know that you'll be coming every time the heavens pour.

And you are welcome home - nice to see you standing there you didn't knock the door,
tell me sea-dog stories of a life spent on the boat,
bring the water, wind and rain and bring yourself of old.

But mind my floor - spare the wood and sodden core,
where you come from now you needn't worry for the storm.
Sit yourself and dry your boots and tell me how is Mum?

Those we love and lose live on forever in our home... x

Today I'm linking with Magic Moments.

N.B. My 'Stories Of The Sea' posts are entirely fictitious and are my current, early attempts at story telling. My own Dad is fit and well and is very much a lover of dry land!

I'm so proud to have been shortlisted in the BIBs Fresh Voice Category. 
If you enjoy my writing please take a moment to vote for me via the link below...



Today I am linking to the wonderful Magic Moments.

The Number One

One match lit bright,
one candle yellow light,
one life, one day, one boat sail away.

2nd May forever changed.

So we will shine a light -
window sill and lantern high,
torch and lamp and starry night,
stone and field and cliff and beach and sky.

Tallest, strongest lighthouse standing bright.

Beacons of light -
strung from here to far and wide,
east and west and north and south,
further than you ever sought to find...

We will always remember.

Yours is a light which will never go out... x



For Jennie, David, Esther & William - on this and every 2nd May. 

Today I'm linking this post to a collection of messages on Susanne's blog. 
I am also linking to Prose For Thought.

An online auction in memory of Matilda Mae and in support of The Lullaby Trust 
begins on 11th May and runs for 9 days. You can find out more about this here.

The Lights

She watched them of a night. Positioned in view of the lighthouse and furthermost point before landmass met the sea.

Each evening they returned - swarming like giant fish only metres from the shore. Indistinct shapes which huddled close.

And glowed. It was the glowing which perplexed her the most. Close to the rocks, warm clear light filtered only by waves and froth.

The path to the beach descended the slope. Dark and infrequently lit. And breeze, light over tide, carried little sound forth.

Still the water glowed.

Rock aside, pebble and shingle turned then to coarse sand. Noisy underfoot. Seabed quick and wader deep amidst the surf.

2 feet, 3 feet further in. Swirling skirt and jumper sodden wet. Cold and dark and hard to tell.

And lights then - around her legs. As seaweed pulls and flows and ebbs.

But faces instead - arms and torso and head - brightly glowing tails equipped with scales and fin and flesh. Giant fish which once were men.

And their song - deep and strong - told of years of solid rock. Ships and wrecks and all which once was lost.

She swam that night with lighthouse keepers sworn to light the rocks... x

I'm so proud to have been shortlisted in the BIBs Fresh Voice Category. 
If you enjoy my writing please take a moment to vote for me via the link below...



Today I am linking to the wonderful Magic Moments.

Lost & Found

The mirrors are looking tired in my house.
They show me lines and crooked smiles,
Eyes less bright than once upon a time.

And they work better higher up,
Shoulders down they've started to distort.
Twist and bulge and tell me all that's wrong.

What happened to the girl they used to hold?
Did she turn heel and walk through sliding doors?
Glass and time and back when we were young?

She's left me here to look upon,
what's been found and what has gone -
and I am not the image I once was.

Somewhere in the mirror that girl's lost.

So I held you,
Rosy cheeks and not yet 2,
Thought that maybe you'd know where to look.

We found her then - years of love and light ahead,
beauty, youth and life yet to be led...

Not I in the mirror -
you instead... x

I'm so proud to have been shortlisted in the BIBs Fresh Voice Category. 
If you enjoy my writing please take a moment to vote for me via the link below...



I'm linking today, as every Thursday, to the fabulous Prose For Thought.

Fly High

I took you to the park, Friday past.
See-saw, slide and pitch of grass - giant saucer, roundabout,
and swings - on which to fly.

And you fear not the slide - shiny metal, dizzy heights,
little sturdy legs to climb,
beyond my reach - and high.

Wide eyed, hold tight, grass and woodchip left behind,
swing up high and reach out wide,
heady rush and leave this world behind.

Then tears, come home-time.

What warrior child wants solid ground?
Wind and flight and speed of sound,
swing me high and spin me back around.

A spark, I catch, in your eye.
My girl - fearless under bright blue sky... x

Brilliance In Blogging Awards Shortlist!

If you voted... 

...it worked!

Thank you so much and please vote once more here to help me make the final six! x

Me & Mine

We do not look alike.
Not that I can recognise - people stop me not to say that you have got my eyes,
or chin or lips or smile.

Perhaps my nose, small and round.
And hair - kinks and curls - blonde just now,
set to turn to golden brown.

And your brother is the same,
like his Dad in every way - or so people say,
almost every single day.

Like I would say to friends - off hand,
that boy of yours is just the very double of his Dad.

I say it less these days.
For likeness to a mother is in more than just a face.

In spark and laugh and grace,
in pretty clothes and funny ways,
in we can always find a way and didn't you do great.

In I am worth as much or more as anybody else.

In temperament and pace. In lit up eyes and happy face,
In me and mine and just about a million different ways.

You may not look my double but you're just like me the same... x

Results

So you are going to be okay.

You - and our family - heard good news today,
that you are well and strong and safe,
that this is contained.

And did you walk the halls,
clinics, automatic doors,
wards and strip lights, exit home?

To the day beyond,
where not one cloud could block the sun,
where you breathed air and this life, truly shone.

For health - the only thing that matters,
this day won... x

Stardust

Purple and fushia and crimson and plum,
your colours.

Warm in the winter and bright in the sun,
borne of life and light and love,
deepest hues in all the world.

Become you, little one.

Not white and grey - not dust. 

So I'll think not of ashes,
But stardust sent from high above... x

Written in response to this.

Tall Ships

The world is their oyster - these children of mine.
Just babies still.
Time firmly on their side.

And someone said that you would be their guide.
Once seas run clear and skies are wide.
Perhaps, she was right.

So steer them straight.
Keep their feet from running late,
open doors and cast a light their way.

And I will show them pictures of your face.
Take them places we knew well,
stop my boy from starting to forget.

And do you see my girl?
Sunny nature, sunny curls,
growing lean and quickly growing up.

Finding the world.

And maybe you told me,
running races on a beach,
that should I wish it I could one day sail the seven seas.

And of today?
Tired eyes and master plans left late?
Best of work and friends already made?

Not this day.
Not these hands and not this face.
Not a sideways glance as if to say...

But a new day,
Hope and plans and futures laid,
Bright ideas and tall ships yet to sail... x

This week I'm linking up to the wonderful Wednesday Words and Prose For Thought.

Small Hours

If it be true that a letter will always seek a reader,
may a reader seek an answer in the words which they have read.
May a pillow meet a dreamer in the smallest of our hours,
may our stories find an audience, and memories prevail... x

The Woods

You played outdoors today - properly now no longer a babe.
More of a girl every day.

And our garden is small - pebble, pots and thick stone walls.
But sheltered and - in cool spring sun - warm enough.

And we went a walk - woods and daffs and past a wall,
ornate garden kept no more, trees and path and fields beyond.
And bluebells - not yet grown.

And you walked - small hand in mine, found your feet on muddy ground,
carried home once worn out.

And I told our boy - you'll play here in years to come,
tracks and fields and easy to be lost.
But a minute from the door.

Whilst you drew breath and looked across, green and blue and sea beyond.
Rolling hills and - in the very distance - island mountain tops.

And how on earth could I forget - when cold and dim and dark and wet,
That we struck gold the day we found this place.

Straight from books and fairy tales, wood and field and wild fresh air.
Children's footprints left without a care... x

An Afterword

Brown Rabbit and her Lucky Star

It goes almost without saying, that in the most part, readers of yesterday's story The Lucky Star, would recognise Brown Rabbit and the lost star, to be Jennie and Matilda Mae.

And the wood was, of course, twitter. When grey rabbit first came upon the circle of friends, she noticed those doing everything in their power to help. Susanne Remic - Jennie, Tilda, and Lullaby Trust champion supporter - was my inspiration here.

And grey rabbit? Well that was me. For I certainly struggled when I first heard Jennie's tale. I fell to pieces. I couldn't understand the devastating impact that anothers life - overnight - had upon my own. And for my
own well-being, I did consider walking away.

But thankfully, as in the story, I chose the better path. And if you have supported Jennie, Susanne or the Lullaby Trust in any way, then I feel it worthwhile pointing out that you are Grey Rabbit too.

As Jennie knows only too well, we can never bring Matilda back. But we can help each other. We can show compassion and we can show love. We can embrace a bright new future and hope that with our help and support - other families may never require the services of the Lullaby Trust.

Thank you x

The Lucky Star

What follows is a bedtime story called The Lucky Star. If you read closely you are sure to recognise some of its characters.

It helps celebrate the work of FSID Charity, who today embark on a bright new future known as The Lullaby Trust.

The Lucky Star is the first story I have written, and came about after 2nd February 2013. When I - like grey rabbit and many others - decided not to cross the path...

Moonlight and Hares - Original artwork by Karen Davis

The Lucky Star

Grey rabbit lived in a wood. A large wood with a million paths - criss crossing and leading every other way. And countless trees - straight and long and tall, with leafy branches reaching out to shake the hand of neighbouring boughs.

It was a dense wood, but bright and healthy and full of life.

Grey rabbit walked in the wood each day. On one occasion she saw another rabbit up ahead. A brown rabbit, but like herself in every way. Brown rabbit looked so very sad that grey rabbit stopped a moment to watch. Then in a hurry, and having reached her turning in the path, she thought it best to look away and carry on.

However she did not forget, and the next day whilst walking again, she saw the same brown rabbit - in the same place - looking even sadder than before.

By now others from the wood had gathered round. Grey rabbit paused, and heard from a little bird that brown rabbit was sad because she had lost her special star.

Now grey rabbit understood. To lose a special star was very sad indeed! Just to hear the story made her cry. She felt so sad she thought perhaps it best to walk away. To cross the path, forget all about brown rabbit and be glad instead that her own special star was at home and was safe.

But in that moment she saw brown rabbit smile. She saw that the other animals were doing their very best to help. Some with important things like blankets and food, and others who had stopped only for a moment, to nod and smile and let their friend know that they cared.

Grey rabbit knew then, that if she could help brown rabbit in any way, she absolutely should. She walked forward, joined the circle of friends, and talked and listened and held out a paw.

And in doing so she did help. She learned all about the lost star - which was the saddest story she had ever heard. And in the days which followed, she listened as brown rabbit promised the entire wood, that should they all help each other, perhaps other special stars would not be lost - and this she found, made her very happy indeed. One day maybe the lost star could become a blessing for them all.

Moonlight and Hares - Original artwork by Karen Davis

And of brown rabbit? Well she went on - of course she did. She grew strong and tall and beautiful. She helped many animals and her story spread far and wide - tales were told and lullabies were sung - and others (who had also lost a special star) knew that should they need a friend, brown rabbit would help and would listen. In time other bright stars found their way to her keeping - and she loved them all the more because of the little star which had been lost.

And although she missed it every single day - and never forgot how bright its light had shone - brown rabbit named it her lucky star, and each night whispered thanks for the love that they had shared. And high above, beyond a thick green canopy of leaves, it twinkled in the night sky for all the wood to see.

The end.


For Jennie, Matilda Mae and The Lullaby Trust. 

Please visit Jennie's blog to read posts from other bloggers and learn more about this very worthwhile cause.

Today I am also linking to the inspiring Wednesday Words.

Thank you to Karen Davis, who kindly agreed for her beautiful artwork to accompany this post.

Sorry

I am sorry darling.
I read your words every day,
If you seem bright I try to think of funny things to say.
If you seem down I grasp whatever comfort comes my way.

And I worry every time that what I say is wrong.
For I can not begin to understand.
This is for me the hardest part.

For words, I know, can only go so far.

But know this - you are never that poor lady to me.
You are a mummy who is struggling with grief.
And in some terrible parallel universe that could easily be me.

I think you need the time to grieve.
To shout to yell to cry to scream.
Bloody loss and this is real.

And how I wish you weren't here,
that I knew not of pain or tears.
That I saw not your image on my screen.

For that would mean that she was here.
That would mean that none of this was real.
I'm sorry Jennie.
Just know that I am here... x

Rainbows

In our house - full of elaborate toys - we decided to make a mess.
Plastic tray, full of paint. Green and blue and yellow and red.
Feet and hands and do your best.

And you loved this - heart and star potato prints.
Trail a blaze on paper sheet, rainbow hands and rainbow feet.

It was lovely to see.
A glimpse of a boy growing more like me.
Colour and shape and bright ideas. Creative - I believe.

So a picture for our wall (still intact and standing tall),
Crumbled not from paint specs on the floor.
Mess, it seems, hurts not at all.

But rather shines a light - days still cold to play outside,
Starry skies and colours of the rainbow brought inside.

And you asked not for DVD, TV or computer screen.
Tore off trousers, socks and tee,
Stood in paint and laughed with me... x