We Fall
They hurry past; we wonder how we made it out and down?
Rifling through the floor of life those seeds that once were sown.
But the pieces left are shattered,
And our body bruised and battered,
Crawls among the meek decay
Through shards of glass and shards of day.
As the needle ceases movement to the south we fall,
Scraping the descent and breaking nails into the wall.
We burn! We burn! The endless drop,
We hit the solid bottom rock.
And look back at our fall from grace
To see life’s distant, smiling face.
Whiskers at Midnight
Mabon prowled across the blood-soaked ballroom floor, glass crackling under each red-stained paw. She licked at her owner's cold face, frozen in a mask of terror. Too hungry to turn back and curious enough to march on, she tailed the other cats as they casually stretched and roamed over the sea of bodies littering the ship.
'A cat cruise - holiday with your kitty in oceanic floating luxury' the advert said. They came in their hundreds, pampered pussies in tow. A trap no cat lover could resist.
The purrfect crime committed by the most intelligent hunters on Earth.
Fluffy. Sweet. Death.
The Hole
“Dare,” I said.
“I dare you to stick your hand in the hole.”
I rose to the challenge. Shining my torch on the cave wall, the familiar hole we’d spun many a terrifying tale about stared back at me open-mawed. Hungry.
Every possibility played in my head: masses of spiders consuming my arm, roiling snakes and poisonous fangs, giant black and yellow centipedes with stinging pincers, starved rats chewing my fingers.
My hand entered, and my blood ran instantly cold. Sweat poured down my back, tears streamed down my face, an inaudible scream lodged in my throat.
We shook hands.
Alton Towers
When I was about sixteen years old, my Dad took my sisters and I on a Sunday trip around B&Q (a hardware store in England) and we chatted about theme parks. I followed in his footsteps in that I was a little thrill-seeker just like him. We said we wanted to visit Alton Towers, a theme park about three hours away from my home (which to me, quite untraveled, was a fair distance). We said we would go the next year.
To me he would live forever, he was the strongest person in the world. To him, the back brace to hold his spine in place squeezed a little too tightly for future rollercoaster adventures, but he was as enthusiastic as me all the same. If we could have one more day together, we'd splash out on those pricey queue-skipping tickets and ride Nemesis and Oblivion, and drift along the Congo River Rapids. Then we'd have pizza and donuts, and get keyrings made of our terrible ride photos.
The Wee Folk
The wee folk, the fairies, the little people. Many names are given to these most wondrous of wisps, these pixie-dust imps and wood-dwelling nymphs, riding high atop dragonfly’s backs, dipping in a stream causing ripples; their favourite tipple a sip from a honeydew cup. Iridescent wings flutter-so-lightly, brightly tipped, leaving trails incandescent with love. Foxglove is like Buddleia to a butterfly; they’ll flutter by a buttercup and land on your forget-me-nots. Hobgoblins, trolls, dwarves and gnomes; brownies and banshees and dryads of trees. Beware the fairy ring, for stepping in, the toadstool will fool you, and steal you away to the kingdom of fae. These elves and sprites could escape your sight, but know that our tales of fairies are not myth, they exist, nature spirits by day and dancing by night.
Bloom of Youth, Gone to Seed
In spring I am the babe
Nestled in a flowerbed
A sprout of creation released into the world.
In summer I am the maiden
Adorned with white dress and floral crown
Ripening fruit in the noonday sun.
In autumn I am the mother
A belly swollen, carrying the seed
Giving birth to next season's blooms.
In winter I am the crone
Withering stalk, head heavy with knowledge
Hunched and waiting for winter's end.
Now I am but worm food
Decomposing in the earth
My soul dispersed again.
The Forest
Falling leaves and pumpkin spice
a carpeted floor of reds, oranges, a secret of green.
Did you see which way the rabbit went?
The flowers are dying now
the ones piled up
to remember the dead.
She was found in the forest
her body strewn out
like marbles.
Squirrels are gathering
birds are abandoning
but the forest stays.
Its presence is fairytale and terror.
Enchanting for a walk to get lost in your dreams
of fairies and unseen things.
Tragic for the hiding places
and ivy covered faces
consumed by the dangers of
The Forest.
I left that grey castle
like every other day
and every day thereafter.
Midday to escape the coffee-making talks
the weekend-breaking squawks
the fluorescent tubes buzzing above my head.
And the screen which never slept.
I walked head down, past lunchtime drivers
and car park diners.
I walked away to the forest.
Four hours of nerves
escaped on my breath, recycled by the trees
into fresh ideas.
The crunch of the leaves
the smell of the dirt
and nothing the colour of grey.
I lay with the dead flowers, the ones to remember her by.
I was jealous of her decaying beauty.
She had escaped this world of
black mirrors
worn down fingers
and tightly closed windows.
Her secret resting place
her ivy covered face
embraced by the wonders of
The Forest.