From Ultramarine coming soon on Kindle 

This morning the birds

are too loud and the green

of the garden  cuts my sight

like a Stanley knife.

I wake from a palette of coloured scenes,

*

……..and it’s not going to change where we are caught like sponges on a deep sea reef waiting for a diver to rescue us from staring into the weightlessness of our situation. There’s no up or down, backward or beyond, just a swaying in the current.  Twenty one years ago today I gave birth on that island in the Scottish sea, torn amongst the riches I was surrounded with.  Today I tried to touch you with it so that we could both celebrate, but you had your elbows encased in plaster dust building another edifice to your isolation.  Your chosen woman hovered and your voice was edged in the same despair that I knew so well, I had grown it in my bones, breathed it in with the air, and felt it rise in my gullet. I have learnt so slowly how to close the door. I have learnt that we are always as we were at the beginning, in that first moment of recognition. I have learnt that doors stay shut and we can choose the ending to every story.

*

I keep all my men in my top drawer

that’s where I want them to be

side by side but unable to see each other.