Dear Sarah
Imagine a world where you would have been
safe,
where these lines do not exist.
Standing on my Poynders Road,
with a lump in my throat, each time I hear.
Most of us aren’t like that
is no counter at all, but stupidly I imagine it
a plea; the sound of footsteps
gathering pace, running
to where none of us are like that.
A simple matter of humanity, stagnant within.
A place where all the vileness has died.
Dare to take
the first step
towards?
Years of Plenty
Strange the sadness lingering.
A shadow of pain
is not pain itself.
The shape of me
fits perfectly in the memory.
I never cried
though not for want of tears.
Rather fear of the wretched exposure.
An error in approach, perhaps.
Heavier, yet carried,
you felt out the shape of me,
traced my every step
through the unlit,
reforging, reshaping, time
and time over,
all the way
to the rising edge
of our years of plenty.