Embroiders do it backwards

‘You have gone and cheated.’

‘No I didn’t, you bitch, we’re allowed to use backstitch.’

‘You so did the same thing at the Birmingham and Jersey conventions.’

‘That was much better, do you think that's going to keep the Judges distracted?

‘Well look at the cups, it worked everywhere else.’

When milk was an aspiration

The horned cow stood by her calf ready to kill, her leg bleeding. Gar was starved and to finish would mean the feeding of his family. Yet the moon-god said greet those that look at you with death.

Laying down he watched the cow lick and suckle. And looking, wondered.

Sleep perchance to dream

‘Sleep is ripe for attack,’ they said.

The war, a commonplace – not noticed except for those with tears for eyes, needed a new final push.

‘We’ll infect the dreams of the enemy,’ they said.

Victory came swift, except dreams tap the same well, so we had Peace, but not rest.

Grasp the Bird’s Tail when you can

‘Grasp bird’s tail,’ he said, waving his arms to dismiss us.

The long search had brought us to a drunk who thought more of his bottle then us

.....‘How do we?’

.....‘Hold tight. Just hold tight,’ he whispered.

.....We didn’t because we finger wagged and let the bird fly away.

Making Jam for Spring

Berries red black to pick in autumn light.
Hands, cold from dampness, cardinal
stained, as bruised fruit scents the air.
You taste the summer gone, maternal
dreams long past as deer rustle by.

At home, fragrant water simmers,
red black berries stroked clean
for the weighing as scales click.
You see autumns when you lean
down and taste salted tears afresh.

Trickling in water kissed berries until
flopping and popping thick. No calories,
savour licking good. Now pectin test.
You release methylated memories:
camping holidays, picnics, her dance.

Time as evening moon rises to add
sugar and capture morning smells
anticipating the breakfast bite of spring.
You measure heat and fear the farewells
if the pop of broken glass lets her go.

Adding butter to cleanse you
pour, into cloth held crystal clear jars,
jam as a slow motion waterfall.
You twitch your nose as the steam appears
from clicking lids, knowing she would smile.

Wax paper, scentless like the candles lit,
crackles as wrapped around the necks
sealing in flavours for the darkness.
You know your fingers miss her locks
but at each spring tasting she still laughs.

How much those Times?

The shop was not out of the ordinary, it didn’t have to flaunt its worth. People who needed knew and came when it mattered. When the pain or loneliness got too much, they came to buy the lost times they could afford.

Grief addicts had a lack of face-light.

Reflected Leadership

 

 

 

‘You coming to my party?’ It always started with an invitation, Jude thought. The honey words to see if the group owned you. He just played the field and let them think the bait hooked. It worked at school and in politics. He was mirroring his way to the top.