This means you have me as I am now and not via the tracks I have taken and
The dust that’s fallen on former versions of myself, hanging up in
The gallery that is my life , is me,
My curation
My soul’s memories of myself and others and
I envy myself, the places I have been and the fun I have known – never alone, never unhappy,
Never a crooked smile, unless I request my deleted items be undeleted
I am done with this day
Put it back on the shelf
Or in my bag, that way
I can read it on the
Bus, if I change my mind
For one that wants to be
Reading something new.
Now is old, blank and clean,
That extra page preserved
For silent doodling, no-
One watching or listening
Now that ‘The End’ has passed.
This is the time of year when
Music needs to dig deep
To find us, rap a rope
Around our waists and wind
Us up to the light.
This is the time of year
When summer sounds are
Hollow and clatter round
Like flies scanning for jam
Round an empty jar.
This is the time of year
When Love’s warmth is
Set in relief against the
Grey, when any ray is welcomed
Like a hero from the war.
This is the time of year
When something as tiny as a
Crocus bud is all the hope
We need to prove again that
Life springs from mud.
What is there to fill this grey day?
Is there someone for whom
It is not grey, is there someone
Who switches on the lights with
Every blink? Is there a place
In this grey city where life flows
Strong and people are enjoying
Their work and loving themselves
And seeing light in every eye even
Though the sun’s switched off?
Being Every Day 