Moving out

Last morning

It's not the clouds
That make the shapes,
I think, it's our minds, and

I don't want to leave.
I like living here.
I'll miss this,
Waking to the instant calm of water,
The gentle rustle of trees

(I can't work out what kind),
The one closest to me
A patchwork
In shades of grey,

Bark peeling away and healing
Around old scars.
Three strong arms
Reach far beyond

My third-floor window.
And if I look straight up
The newest leaves
Are waving.

Seat reservations

Seat reservations

I am self-enclosed,
-contained, -sufficient; this is
A somehow pleasing pretence
For an afternoon spent
On a train to London Euston
In the company of strangers.

Unknown faces,
Solitary, mainly, gaze
Headphoned and mobile-phoned
Through windows,
Eye each other vaguely,
Muse on other lives, played out
In other places.

That pair of shoes,
His hairstyle,
Her tone of voice,
My secret smile,
Each reserved space seems momentarily to belong
To an individual, distinct
Self-contained Someone.

Also published at Middlebrow Magazine.

Running

Running

Running:
The feeling of having
Strong legs,
Deep breath
And a reason
To keep going.

Saying goodbye

Saying goodbye

Saying goodbye
Makes part of me inside
Go blind.

All week I knew this was coming:
I've been slowly turning
Away, busy humming
To stop myself looking

At the door I've sealed off
Somewhere in my mind.
On one side, there are feelings.
I'm not dealing
With those; I'm smiling
A false smile, thinking

False thoughts
That can't stop
Or settle anywhere,
Until I open the door and

You're not there.