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.


Saving daylight.

What time is it? My eyes fling
like darts to a board, from the
clock to my watch. It can’t be.

But it can be. Forwards then
backwards, my mind jumps
through the seconds. It’s too
Every awakening is now
wrapped in heavy darkness.

It’s too soon.
Creeping ever
closer, making fools of the
early, and heroes of the late.

What time is it?
Gaining an
hour, to lose the light of day.



It marched right into her life
without warning. Ticking over
like the months and days before.
Time — as elusive as the years
given to contain it, control it,
make sense of it. Counting up
and counting down, the minutes
and the hours; those which
shouldnt be numbered or named.

“Just live every feeling”, she said.

Every breath, every heartbeat.
Every kiss, every smile.
Every blink of an eye
meaning yes!, we’re alive.