To put away that tired crutch, knowing
Misery and despair come unabated and run rampant
And all can empathise with crying out into cold nights
Instead of leaning into sadnessess comfort, grasping
For minute sparks to fan them in closed hands
And celebrate the mirth and joy each of us shelter, this is happiness.
In pleasing curves the day unfurls,
With rain to wash the street,
The cobbles glow from yesteryear,
And warm our weary feet,
For these stones are tired and old – unsuited for these times,
But still they stay and still they hold our weight on modern climbs.
A piece here written after a great day trip to Rye in Kent. If you’re ever in the area I recommend popping into The Mermaid for some mulled wine which packs a punch and possibly ghosts.
Of which would we choose?
That cold night speckled with
Perhaps stars and maybe suns
Or warmth in desperate souls
Punishing but at least eager.
Turn from the cold to find faith
And turn from faith to see
Both melt with dawn.
In shrouds we approach
weaving our winding-sheets down winding streets
concerned with naught but symmetry
between the then
the space between shadows
and comfort in closeness in comparison.
No, time will fly on midnight wings
at every point grazing hovels crowded
on narrow pathways, sky blotted to slits
of fog and faint light
too weak to pierce but enough
enough now to bridge the night.
Was it ever so
That cold leaves land on cooler
Whilst the damp rings similar no
Warm decay welcomes grotty arms
As one laying on the floor in
Familiar abode, reaching for
Anyone or anything to call for help.
Family long gone
Swept to the mulch.