'November 1st, 2009' - the piece sighed.

On being so, your senses heighten, so much that you can sense the very animals moving hidden in the trees.
Of course, nothing is just given to you, after all, a gift must be unwrapped.
A breath of night is always the first of a new life.

I paused, as I,
Entirely myself, contented by the previous days had,
Those the last of October,
This that first night of November,
And I looked through the doors windows,
The pubs lights off now,
Just the lanterns of the streets outside,
And there he stood.
A profile to me,
His hair a-skew to the golden damp cobbles,
The moon bearing down upon him from the very centre of the parting sky.
His arms, so full yet so fit,
Holding up the umbrella he packed away to bring inside,
So I must avert my eyes, must take my body from the window.
I’m sure he sees me enough.


On leaving did see, his hesitation in fingers through his hair,
Though about me, I shall never have an idea,
He followed but he left,
And so I went out alone onto those very same cobbles,
That harboured him just minutes before.
The moon sat still as ever,
As I stood aside the bridge tonight,
It lit the sky more powerfully than even the sun,
That I never see.
For a lamplight it always more appropriate than the main.
Every cloud dashed past,
Painted softly as the lines that ink my back.

Dark figures don’t haunt me,
Dark silhouettes pass through my life,
As I walked along side the river for Novembers very first twilight,
Through the leaves, through the crunch, through passers by and bitter breeze,
I saw a figure passing in time between the pillars across the water.
Though daylight still strong, but shaded,
I could not make out this to be a man or a woman,
But it walked as I, hands in pocket, head slightly bowed,
A fine silhouette of entirely black, from hair to clothe
Our steps met at the bridge, and though it went a different route to myself,
His eyes still met my own for a moment,
Before we crossed separate roads.
As I crossed my own, I saw him pace off, hands still in pocket, a cinched in waist by his tailor,
He appeared entirely a black image,
Mute and strong
Against all those autumn leaves that dashed the cobbles of Castle Park,
Every one else had features,
He, not a trace of detail,
And yet I was drawn,
And again we walked in time,
Though this time, through trees not pillars did he disappear.
No red this year.



“You, I spent my life missing you….” Hesitation gripped her, the last three words trailed from her speech, yet carried on in her conscious mind, “And I shan’t stand it a moment longer”.
That life of the damned, so they called it, may just keep my own life from wanting him any longer.




A park lit by moonlight, soft lanterns and sound tracked by tapping rain that fell from the leaves still on the trees, and insulted those that now led upon the floor.
It’s pathways decreased by what now mostly led,
What looked like bodies of leaves on the ground.
And so I stepped, in time to old music,
Hearing the modern talk of those around me.
Oh a girl, old before her time, hath she no where to go but the leaves of adolescent trees?
Moments and memories, all stirring my mind,
To a consciousness that decides who and who isn’t in my life,
And reality, that reality
That dips in for shock factor,
And so my self may never rest,
Oh tender hooks.
On edge.
My mind, revelling now, as I near just twenty human years old,
All that has passed,
And all I have become.
For fear I spent years,
Of living an ordinary life,
But never has it been just that.

Some how I seeked happiness, and that was a wooden floored home,
Rugs, soft lighting and a family around a tree a Christmas,
An odd time to receive it,
In doses that were unfamiliar,
And yet ordinaire was my fear.

My senses so wrong as a child,
Hear I every sound a house can make,
See every shadow that partake,
In every nightly ritual of sleep.
As I slip further into nocturnal ways,
I recall being so young faced, fresh skinned,
Sat upon the padded seat of a warm family restaurant,
Busy on a weekday summer evening,
And my body ached with fear,
Ached with being sick of being in fear.
And suddenly life around me was but a question,
But a question of where in reality I really sat,
If my mother and then-step-father really sat before me,
If any of these people were really here.
Where in parallel did I lie?
And if so why, when in those arms I miss, did I feel so almost alive?

I wanted it all to stop,
And I prayed upon myself amnesia for a very long time…

Years, my years,
Only almost twenty, barely scraping it’s milestone presence,
And already my mind is that,
Of the girl who walks the city at night,
Clutching a cane,
And considering the sky,
And breathing most deeply when the moon reveals itself to her,
Whether close to the rooftops, halved and tinged in gold,
Or dead centre the sky, hanging full and ominously pearl,
My own footsteps my company,
The sounds of the earth around me.
Rustling come red come gold come dinge of the waters that travel around me.
My own gentle hum the only apparent sound.



The way the rain may make me feel,
So very early houred morning,
The way the crowd carried me that night,
And dropped me back on stage,
To the last I’ll hear his voice again through mikes I’d always known.
I’ll never know this feelings,
Unless I’m walking alone,
Glancing up to the church I live beside,
Seeing hours only I seem to know.
For spending this autumn walking along side the pale,
The ‘one’,
My eyes may be clouded,
My vision rotted,
Ignored,
My previous admiration slanted.
I must see these things, whilst I am alone,
For if the next one has me looking and only looking at so,
Then perhaps beauty will leave me in toe.