the shadows are not too sure of themselves,

like calligraphy without language,

like an artist finger painting in black –

trees grew up together,

their shadows grew into each other,

casting cool darkness over tar.


the wind plays with the shadows,

sifting through leaves with its poetic fingers

so that dark and light dance on the ground,

flicker, slide, quiver, sway, weave,


they play a butterfly’s game of beauty,

mirroring the sun’s own choreography with the clouds


the truth

why should i say anything more, less, or differently than i have to say it?


we are fluid,

always moving, always doing,





but we are also repeated cycles

(we find constancy in the familiar rhythm of our movements)


we are specks on a wheel

that we didn’t know was turning

until we swing back to the same position that we were in

years ago.

stillness is at the spoke.


peace is at the centre.

i’m afraid i don’t know how to get there


fear holds me.

snaking his hand into my chest,

he slowly,



against my lungs.

his other hand has dissolved around my gut,

into it.

it twists and stretches in strange, unpredictable ways.

his whisper tickles my ear,

sounding exactly like my own,

murmuring worst case scenarios accompanied by




of my heart, my stupid heart, that is rebelling against this heat;

running, racing, bolting within its restrictions

needing to escape this suffocation;

determined to outrun its fate.

because my heart,

my stupid heart, doesn’t know

that you cannot escape

what already resides

within you.

love story

you and i;

we are both

storytellers, writers, poets.


but when my

naked body curls

against yours: with

touching foreheads and

closed eyes, when

i tell you

i love you,

you tell me

you are family

i cannot help

but think that

words are only

poetry if the

right people say



if the right people

mean them.


the sun reclaims its debts;


as honey beams sweep over marble tiles and climb over painted walls

to steal the last glimmer of glass;

the trustworthiness of colours.


the sun,

it gathers the ends of its gown,

plunging into its own magnificent cloth


the clouds yield

before their master,

patterned in the sky to catch the last echo of sunlight


after all,

it is only to the sun

that gold really belongs