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.


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.


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.



She opened the page and out
flew the dust of a thousand
airs; that familiar old smell
that tickles the nostrils
and warms such eager eyes.

She could already feel
them, watching into her.
The glisten of tears,
the creases of frowns,
the sparkle of smiles.
The gazes of years’ past,
setting her own alight.

The curled corners of pages
plotting moments of silent


Of halted endings and swift
beginnings, of picking up
and leaving off, until that
final page. Where now,
her own gaze still lays.



Once read.

The foldings of bookmarked
corners, the ripples of
raindrops, or tears.

The stiffened waves of paper,
once soggy like hot,
hungry fingers.

The dry scabs of chocolate,
long lost surprises 
still waiting to be picked.

An old book tells not one
story, but many,
written all over its pages.