the colours that maps used to be

i am drawing trees.
will there ever
be
a day when you will
see
them?
i am holding onto an old wicker basket
and feeding it with leaves
that are long gone.
dead pieces of a
weeping willow
that is no longer
there.

i want to
know that someday
i will
stop
drawing trees.

circlets for a horse woman

sometimes in the drawing she is wearing feathers.
not just on her head but all around of her body. sometimes she rides a beautiful white horse called Each Uisce. most of the time she just stands beside him, peacefully; silently. she is a strong but ethereal figure.
she always wears a robe of black. this is never sad, nor frightening. it is just the way it is and that is all.
in later years she will throw her coloured feathers to the wayside. a murder of crows atop a crumbling rainbow. then she allowed only for the inclusion of white. sometimes she would scatter these to the sand all around of her and all would be silent and still at that moment in time.
at the very end there was a tall, conical brown paper head-piece. she stepped into the final battle with such courage and grace; wearing a plain but oh-so delicate garland.

Old trees

Your name
is the only one
that i dream
of carving
into
old trees.
Amid the madness
and all the fear
I had of losing you
(or of never
really having you
to let go of in the
first place)
there is a blurry picture
inside of me.
It is of an (almost)
broken
rope-swing,
swaying to
the tingling
of a small
wooden xylophone
-found on a road
that has a forest
on its left-hand
side,
a still from our love story
on its right;
and a field of bluebells
in the
middle.

thunder and lightning

the sky outside crackles and crinkles and crashes.

two delicate little birds
are sheltered by their
brave and
(beautifully) grey
mother.

i spend my evenings
wondering if it is possible
for a bird
to swallow
the sky
while it sleeps,
or if the stars
would dance
way too
magically
for any
wee tree-pigeon
to get
the chance.

the rain keeps falling
down
and a jazz band
begin to play
in the green, green grass
of our forest.

a crown

i
wear a hat
upon
my head
that is
made from
an
old newspaper

-the words
and faded imagery more smudged
than the face
of any
wee girl
you have seen
who has
been
crying
for a
long
long
time.

it is
tied around my
chin
with ribbon
that is
old
and yellow;
we don't
really know
where we
found it
anymore.

when others look at me
they may
think of parties
from days long
gone
by;
jubilees
and
lemonade.

but i know
that you and me
will
always remember
the chips
we shared
together
one sunday,
battling our way over
water
on a cold summer
night;
wrapped
in
very
old
newspaper.

camping; a secret handbook

you and me
are cooking
risotto
on a campfire
in the corner
of my mind.
we have
found our
own
little spot,
as free
from
the
threat of



big

brown

bears



as is possible.
we have a
wigwam
that is smaller
(by far)
than that
which we
need it
to be.
our wellies
sit snuggled
together
outside of
our canvas
home,
gathering
rainwater
and



little

lost

leeches.



we whisper our secrets to the trees; trustingly.

lessons in etiquette; the aftermath

sitting on the shoreline
all else
fades
into nothingness
and even less,
sometimes.
i am a mermaid.
and i am becoming
ok
with this.
the trawler boats
in the distant
sea
and century
have forgotton
my name
and yet
i
still
sing
-my songs are more
and more
twinkly.
no more
melancholy
melodies
shall you hear
from this little
sea dwelling
curly haired
brunette on your
sandy and
oh-so
beautiful
beach

lands that are new and that are oh, so ancient

a girl she was.
and one that went a-wandering.
and she watched the scottish sun
turn a castle
on a hill
into an
ebony
silhouette.

kerala

i watched the rain lash down in the grassmarket,
as if it had discovered the meaning of life
and i remembered the frogs and the smell of chai

cowboys and indians

we play cowboys
and indians
together

in an old barn
as the rain falls
softly

Willow man

You are my fourth month.
You are my lunacy when spoken of in ancient Farsi.

I take you and I wrap you all around of my bankings and
you never fail me.
You have moulded yourself into the role
of protector
(so delicately)
and I watch
in sleep-ridden awe
as you converse
with the moon.

When I climb up on top
of the top
of your sky tickling
limbs
and dive into
the water
that you
soothe
underneath you
I do not drown
like the one has drowned
over and over
in melancholy words
and in haunting watercolours.

Rather, I dance
and I sing
to the birds above me
and to the ebb and flow beneath me;
of your meaning.