Weeknight Fare

She drops her bag upon the chair,
And talks to him of work concerns,
As he cooks steak, hers medium rare,
All apron stripes and finger burns.
This love letter in weeknight fare,
He writes her for when she returns.

 

Written for a couple who really love their food xxx

Rites of Passage

This passage of rites
though which she walks – accomplice –
is burgeoning with echoes
of memories she’ll never have.
The footsteps resounding
are those of her loved ones,
for whom she
willingly
holds the train,
it’s weight of expectation
dragging at her resolve.
She grieves for all that she
does.
not.
want.
and her loss of certainty
is her greatest loss of all.

Confluence

Awake, the souls in the beat of our feet
and the new sweated skin of effort and dust.
In the confluence of our Ways,
self-doubt wears with the tread of our boots
and,
as we walk this ancient path,
we part with parts of singing hearts,
knowing they’re in the safest of hands.

This one is for Kathryn, who’s my kind of people xxx

Juicy Buds

He lived to see the juicy buds
before returning to his home
beneath the roots and sapling shoots,
eternal bed of leaf and loam.

In nature’s shroud, that verdant pall,
beside the walkers’ wooden stile,
the endless seasons lay their wreaths
and we remember with a smile.

 

For Baba Tom x