Less your heart, mine won’t beat but burn.

Delete Delete Delete Return.

Elephant in the Room

Elephant in the Room

It isn’t what’s said, it’s what’s not said

What says it all.

The day you brought it home

I’ll never forget.

It was only seven foot tall then.

An elephant! I said.

Put it in the backyard.

Fine, you said, Fine!

And, disgruntled,

Tied it to the washing line.

As you slept I’d pull back the curtains,

Stand by the window and watch it.

A dark shadow. An iceberg. A hump filled the backyard,

Rising and falling with each deep gentle snore.

Breakfasts were never the same again.

The elephant took up all the space

And had no table manners whatsoever,

Although it was useful for the washing-up.

Whenever I broached the subject,

You’d rant and rave and fume,

Say I was going crazy, There is no elephant in the room.

But the saddest thing is not the crockery it smashed

Nor the walls it demolished, of our past.

It wasn’t its footsteps stamped all over our home,

The cracked floorboards or its wont to roam.

It was the lie established after I said, It’s there.

For years you looked at me and said, Where, dear, where?

Architecture

Architecture

Each cloud wants to be a storm.

My tap water wants to be a river.

Each match wants to be an explosive.

Each reflection wants to be real.

Each joker wants to be a comedian.

Each breeze wants to be a hurricane.

Each drizzled rain wants to be torrential.

Each laugh from the throat wants to burst from the belly.

Each yawn wants to hug the sky.

Each kiss wants to penetrate.

Each handshake wants to be a warm embrace.

Don’t you see how close we are to crashes and confusion, Tempests and terror, mayhem and madness,

And all things out of control?

Each melting ice cube wants to be a glacier.

Each goodbye wants to be the smooth stroke of a forehead.

Each cry wants to be a scream.

Each carefully pressed suit wants to be creased.

Each midnight frost wants to be a snow drift.

Each mother wants to be a friend.

Each night-time wants to strangle the day.

Each wave wants to be tidal.

Each subtext wants to be a title.

Each winter wants to be the big freeze.

Each summer wants to be a drought.

Each polite disagreement wants to be a vicious denial.

Each diplomatic smile wants to be a one-fingered tribute
to tact.

Don’t you see how close we are to crashes and confusion,

Tempests and terror, mayhem and madness,

And all things out of control?

Keep telling yourself,

You’ve got it covered.

Moving Mountains

Moving Mountains

I climbed a mountain for her,

Then saw a frown upon her.

She said I only climbed up here,

So I could look back down on her.

Manchester Piccadilly

Manchester Piccadilly