Through the window.

---

I stand at the sash window,

Looking out on clear moonlight;

In the middle of the city,

But in the silence of the night.

---

The distant hum of a motor;

Leaves rustle in the breeze,

But the houses stand so still

On this August ‘summer’ eve.

---

The silhouettes of rooftops

Etched out upon the hill,

Victorian homes and Georgian ones;

Framed through the windowsill.

---

I stand here, quiet with wonder,

Looking out upon the night –

Bay windows and some sash ones,

Burning with an amber light.

---

These streets hold so much history

Of generations before,

Before they were converted

And whole families roamed four floors.

---

The chimney stacks remain,

Though no smoke now will you see,

From our little attic flat;

My first home at twenty three.

---

But, just for one moment,

When outlines are all I can see,

I pretend it’s 1921

And how these streets would be.

---

Those amber lights in the windows,

Are open fires burning bright;

As children sit with homemade toys

And wooden tops bring such delight.

---

The dim Victorian street lamps

Which now watch over parked cars,

Would navigate the way

For a motorbike and cart.

---

I stand at the sash window

Upon which the whole moon shines,

And realise that these city streets

Will stand the test of time.

---

→livingthroughlines 2017.

September in Salzburg.

Pastel facades

Beyond and behind;

Dusty white clouds,

Gentle sunshine.

Narrow streets,

Busy and alive;

Staggered grey roof-

Tops reaching high.

 

A balanced fortress

Watching down

On the grey and

yellow surrounds.

 

Nestled in hills

Lined by trees;

Protected by nature

The city sleeps.

Coffee in cafes,

Hidden thoroughfares

Of shining cobbles

And winding stairs.

 

Käsewurst for you,

Pretzel for me,

Strolling the city

In happy company.

 

Warm by day,

Pleasant by night;

September in Salzburg

A beautiful sight.

 

→livingthroughlines 2017.

 

The House that Grandad Built.

You are everywhere, 

But nowhere in sight.

Teak wood glory,

A nod to your trade.

I had never noticed,

The gleam of the gold mirror’s frame

On your living room wall,

Yet now it’s vintage presence

Has pride of place in mine.

And what of the music

That you spun her around to

At just 16 years of age?

I will dance all the same

Underneath our slanted ceilings

As he takes my hand.

All four of the rooms

Contain a token of you,

Of memories before my time

That your love can no longer

Quite remember to recall.

Each day I sit upon your chair

But no longer on your knee,

I sit beside a new man,

With whom you would be pleased.

Your home and your history

That you had to leave behind,

Now sit upon the table tops

And fill the walls of mine.

 

©livingthroughlines 2017.

 

Home with you.

Flat pack furniture and

Wonky screws. 

Nan’s coffee table,

Tea and biscuit jar too.

Cutlery from across the world; 

Saucepans never used; 

Drawers which don’t align; and 

A cupboard too small for my shoes. 

Old sash windows 

Only single glazed.

But also, the velux 

Impressing us for days.

Sloping roof and walls 

No heads have gone unscathed;

A view over Victorian terraces and

Street lamps which barely glow. 

Chilly in the morning and 

Warm by the spring eve,

The wind sneaks into the kitchen 

But the rain on the roof soothes.

A fridge that doesn’t work 

And bathroom lights that blew;

Grandad’s needle-less record player 

Will soon be looking new. 

Bags remain unpacked and

There’s plenty left to do;

To make these four walls a home,

But I’m so glad I’ll do it with you. 

 

→ livingthroughlines 2017.

The power of impossibility

A blanket upon my shoulders;

Our heads tilted towards the sky.

The glass pane separates 

These two worlds.

Within ours, the lights go dark 

And we stare towards the unknown. 

Gentle and distant, fire burns

As we watch mesmerised.

How lucky, we say, 

That we witness such precious skies. 

How magnificent, we gasp,

At the history we look upon. 

And it is to you, I ask 

Just why the night sky

Stirs such emotion in us all?

Those distant flickers 

Allow us to believe in anything. 

And it is to myself, I answer 

That it is their sheer impossibility 

Shining so bright,

When they are all but lost, dead and gone

That baffles us all. 

And we are left as specks

Upon the earth

Hoping that just maybe,

Anything at all is possible. 

 

→ livingthroughlines 2017.

Perhaps

Perhaps, if you had said yes 

And not maybe;

Perhaps if you had smiled 

And not looked away; 

Perhaps if you didn’t apologise 

For their mistakes;

Perhaps if you weren’t scared

Of getting it wrong;

Perhaps if you took a risk 

Instead of running;

Perhaps if you took action 

Instead of thinking;

Perhaps if you make a move 

And don’t remain still;

Perhaps if you pursue 

Rather than just wish;

Perhaps if you listen

To your own words;

Perhaps, then perhaps, 

If will finally be when.

  
→ livingthroughlines 2017.

 

Bedroom ‘Love’.

We tried so hard for feelings

That were more than simple lust,

Ran our fingers through the sheets

In a hunt for hope and trust.

 

But a life cannot be built

On tangles in the dark,

When come the morning sunrise,

Clouds of reality dull its spark.

 

Skin, warm against the bed sheets,

But cold to your touch;

Our fingertips feel everything,

But the heart feels nothing much.

 

→ livingthroughlines 2016.

Dear, Mum.

This was a poem I wrote for my mum last year for Mother’s Day when I was still away at University in my final year. I think this was truly the first occasion that I sat down and really took the time to appreciate everything I’d taken for granted throughout my childhood and teenage years. 

---

There are endless thank yous

For the last twenty one years;

For teaching me to grow;

Calming me during tears.

 

You have always been a rock –

Remaining strong when I break,

And yet a warming comfort

When I’ve had all I can take.

 

My teacher and my carer;

My security and my friend;

You were everything you had to be

With no means to an end.

 

I treasure your opinion

Beyond any single other.

No one’s words have impact

The way you can as my mother.

 

Forget the times I moaned

About the places you would take me,

I was too young to realise

How much of it would make me.

 

Forever, I am grateful

For all the things I’ve seen –

The experiences, the memories,

The life that’s already been.

 

The freedom, yet support

The advice without dictating;

You struck a perfect balance,

Giving, yet no taking.

 

You have always supported me

And taught me that I ‘can’,

It’s all of your qualities

That have made me who I am.

 

No one has ever taught you

How to be the mum you are,

You’ve managed it all by yourself

And that’s the amazing part.

 

If I amount to anything,

It would be to be like you –

To craft such perfect motherhood

Would be an incredible thing to do.

 

So for all the times I fought

Against what you had to say,

Please know now that I’m thankful

For your input every day.

 

You always told me ‘one day’

When I had eventually grew,

That I’d be grateful for your effort

And I’d love you for it too.

 

Now, at twenty-one years old

That is absolutely true;

I can never really repay you

For all you’ve done and you still do.

 

My love is unconditional,

Infinite and with no end.

I’ll be there for you,

As you have been for me

 

Forever, my best friend.

The Art of Life.

A little something I wrote in 2014 that I think is great food for thought for us all.

Think of your life
As four plain, white walls;
You are the artist,
You are designing them all.

One of the walls
Is your life so far;
In permanent paint
Are you happy with your art?

Take your second chance
With wall number two,
Pick up the brush,
Design the next part of you

But, just remember,
You’re now halfway through;
Two walls are filled
And there’s nothing you can do.

So just consider,
As you paint on your ways,
How many of these
Would be regretted days?

Two walls left,
Just think it through.
You, the artist
Control the picture of you.

 

→ livingthroughlines 2016.