Poetry

Every day I go to build my nest.

I pick up fluff and twigs and scraps of magic…sometimes,

But mainly bits of rubbish.

I go, I fly, I come back.

Going and flying and coming back.

Beating a well worn path into heavy air -

Pregnant with potential.

I AM EXHAUSTED.

It is not of my own volition (I assure you)

But nature demands it of me.

And in evenings where,

All I want to do is sit and rest in my demented creation,

Nature finds a way of goating me.

That glint over there…

Is that rubbish or is it something else?

And so I go -

I fly -

I come back.

Going and flying and coming back.

Beat against beat while tangled twigs grow.

There are these purple flowers,

That force themselves through concrete,

In marvellous little bunches.

Purple maniacs that choose to grow on grey.

While daffodils and daisies sit softly in the grass,

These purple nightmares insist on discomfort.

Tough work for a little flower,

But my god do they catch the eye....

Like dough resting in the bowl in the hotpress - the big bowl specifically.

Full of warmth and fizzy yeast.

Affection and laughter,

Arguments and frenzied candour

Allowed to brew under a swollen cover of cling film.

Roundy and full.

The pillowy dough - a place for me to rest my head

When the world feels too loud and life insists

On incessant continuation.

Sorry for ignoring you

I didn’t notice you were ignoring me