Casualties of War

Silence falls
As endless crosses
projected on stark modern walls
Shock those assembled within
into moved contemplation.
We don’t forget.

Bonfire Night Ashes

Scary
Loud noises
Make me feel
Relieved my dog’s not
Here…

On the Shelf

11.10.13
I enter the book shop and am surrounded with the presence of cherished and best-beloved clutter. Now de-cluttered and spaced out in harmonious surroundings. Laid out on the shelves like some respectful chapel of rest for those who will to come and pay their respects – as I do. Not abandoned yet ownerless. I think, when I am a presence in some biodegradable casket or lying mingled with the roots of some vibrant young whipper-snapper of a rose bush, I should feel comforted to know that my friends and companions who live upon the shelves, will find another home and a new viewpoint from someone who will love them as I do.
I feel at peace; when the time comes I will be leaving my books to the Oxfam bookshop.

No Man

Everywhere I look, I see pillars that

previously held up the world…but crumbling…

giving off faint trickles of dust.

The new supports are not yet strong enough,

defined enough, to take the strain.

In the meantime a bridge hangs as if

levitating –

its gravity-defying strength an island

in the chaotic uncertainty that surrounds it.

‘Til the end of time (Ghazal)

The essence of waiting is to quietly be
Patient, not distract, just quietly be.

Be still as the dawn and open to change,
To have courage to act on what will be.

And what if that time should still its face?
Future, no longer fact, can cease to be.

The sands will run out and the tide will turn
To make no pact – all will simply not be.

I am Helen, yet not, and one day hence
A final redact, then all I will be…

Lone watcher

Softest grey

feathers nestle in the grass.

The tree is silent…

At Tinker’s Coppice

We walk up the old railway track until we get to Tinker’s Coppice Crossing. I lean on the gate my companion by my side, “Me and Dylan used to live here Scoobs!” I realise my mistake as soon as the words have left my mouth…Scooby is gone. Dylan is too. My two boys are boxes of dust on my bookshelf. Rosie is a lovely dog but she is just borrowed for the week.
We stand there buffeted by a chill autumnal wind. Even the ivy clings on to its support for dear life – like some multi-handed tree hugger. We start to amble back home and on the ancient trees the creepers have grown conker-casing armour to keep out unwanted attention.
Looking upwards I blink as the rain fills my eyes. I feel…
insignificant.

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