Haunted by News

 I wanted them off the dead bodies.

Away from the unburied

mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, children.

I wanted them dead.

And I wanted the killers of the dead

dead too.

Bright thing

 It lit up the room

and made my soul sing

but no one saw it but me.

I tasted the future,

And loved the rhythm of

a beat that used to be mine.

To hysterics in Childhood

 

You were neon pink

on a bright sunny day in the rain

You were the box telly we hit on and off, 

the one which chose which channel we'd watch 

or if colour was an option for the day.

Amidst you we heard the drunken rooks nesting in the trees behind the house,

locals telling stories and falling from their perches.

You were the elastic band I wore round the crown of my head when we climbed the windmill stairs.

As if I would take off and fly!

There I stood in my turquoise dungarees with a purple patch pocket,

clutching a Kimberley biscuit, grinning

like a puppy gone shany

or helium sucked up through a birthday balloon,

left speechless on the floor, delighted by it all and delighted by nothing,

but life.