The 9:20pm train.

A remedy for tired eyes
sees most transfixed
on brightly kept screens.

For another’s, it is lunch;
longingly unwrapped
upon a tablecloth of jeans.

For a lovers’, it is arms
and legs (otherwise
) in careless glee.

And for the weary, it is all
too much; a hand the
necessary pillow for sleep.

For me, it is wonder
no stranger than this.

What curious lives we lead.



The pressures of being
pregnant are as internal
as they are

Ingested right now
in your accusatory
eyes as they will be
in his
                  15kms away.

The pressures of being
pregnant staring me
down as I roll home
hours overdue

                     from work.


Baby on board.

I sit on a train full
of people,
just my baby
and me.

Twirling, tapping,
tangling up my
with butterflies.

Flipping, folding,
holding, like a
onto rings.

Side kicking memories
of skippidy
doo dah
in my mind.

Dancing the pasodoble
to the rumbles of
the carriage
carrying us home.


New fill.

It’s out and it’s
proud and it’s out
of control and I
can’t really breathe
it back in when it’s
out to make a
misery of eating
in and eating out
and just eating
in general isn’t fun
when you’re full
but never ever
as empty as what
filled you before.


In a bottle.

She pondered, dazed. Warm
behind the eyes. Drunk on
tiredness alone. How many
messages are in a bottle?
She couldn’t quite remember,
now a shadow of her twenty-
something self. Surely it
depends how long said bottle
lasts. And how many hands
reach to clink! in its honour.
A chorus of mouths will
always be louder than a solo
salut, after all. Or perhaps
not at all. Perhaps the
messages we keep locked in
intoxicated depths far
outnumber the ones that live
to finally test our breath.



This wintery chill numbs the fronts of my
shin bones in 180 denier tights.

The skin below my fingernails, a lake frozen
over by shiny pink sheets of ice.

Three coats I wear, just one on my back.

With my fairy floss hair, stuck cold to my
mouth, spun high in the air.

Lost is all appetite for food, for reading,
for hunger, for words.

A collapse of the mind, fatigued in this cold.

All thought frozen. Standing. Still.


Mother’s Day.

She is a transporter of moods
and most fragile emotions.

A daily change in temperature
when it is too warm, too cool.

A beaming, ever-trying glow
of encouragement,
even with tears at her feet.

The giver of everything
she has, and of more
than she will ever realise.

A mother is more
than her own self.

She is her child
with every breath.


For it’s the people we
know in life
// those
with whom we spend
countless hours of
our weeks, our years;
those with whom we
steal flashes of belly-
rumbling laughter,
just as often as we
can; even those who,
on rare occasion,
crash into our
subconscious with a
presence that makes
many moons feel like
yesterday // who
make a life worth living.



At the first sign of light,
the whole peninsula
falls solemnly quiet.
Staring off into the
same distant waters, up
at the same imposing
cliffs, heads hang low
in the highest respect.
Stood in the midst of a
silence so loud that
it’s deafening, on the
very shores where
our soldiers sacrificed
their lives for ours,
one hundred years
before. Lest we forget.