Thief of the Night

I look to you
with longing
a need so intense
it can only just be satisfied.

Clouds scurry across
your beguiling, dazzling gaze
as if saying no,
you can’t have him,
he’s ours.

They hasten in pace
rolling quicker and quicker
yet somehow you’re still there
luminous
impenetrable.

As if saying
Look
look at me

want me,
need me,
adore me,
love me.

You are the man
I have never found,
mysterious, elusive
suave, charming,
uncommittable, gorgeous. . .

a thief of the night
stealing the show
stealing the light
stealing my heart.

Happy National Poetry Day!

The air
rich, raw
ripe

leaves my cheeks
red, rosy
plump.

Like the apples
adorning every tree,
nothing says autumn more
than an orchard of Bramleys

hanging there, seductively,
crying out to be picked
waiting to fall
into a cupped hand
or open mouth. . .

The amount of times I scrumped
during my childhood,
no wonder my hands are so deft
at picking for a living now.

The smell wafts, lingering
teasing the senses
tastebuds going crazy,
one bite
just one. . .

I lose all sense of control
crunching crisp skin, then
juicy, succulent flesh,

Nature has never tasted
so good,
life has never been
so sweet.

Homeland

Hello my friend;
it’s been too long. . .

like I’ve been holding my breath underwater
and am breathing
for the first time.

I’ve changed
but
you haven’t,

still as Peter Pan like
as ever.

Bare
barren
beautiful,

emerald green land
garnished with rocks.

Clouds above as granite grey
as the tors beneath them
a witches’ cauldron; spitting

hissing,
bubbling, angrily

until it erupts
with summer rain
warm, wet
wild

hurling from the sky
as if thrown by thunder himself.

The whole landscape shudders
expecting the sudden monsoon
over as quickly as it started;
tussocks and hills shaking their backs
like wet dogs.

Imagine pixies frolicking
amongst cotton grass,
a carpet of snow
warning of peaty bogs.

They ride sheep, jinxing them
so they stand, obstinately
in the middle of roads
just as cars want to pass.

Stubbornly standing
reproachfully staring, fixedly
with greasy grey eyes.

Lichen and moss on gnarled branches
trees stunted growth,
their only weapon to the relentless
howling wind

habit dwarf and wizened
like the hunched backs of wizards
frozen in a natural form.

This is where my heart starts
and will stop

who knows where it will lie in between. . .

There’s satisfaction in knowing
the unknown,

and seeing beauty
in the familiar,

it’s the glory
of my homeland.

You Are Everything

You are everything beautiful to me,

the first break of sunrise
staining the world gold,

the overwhelming perfume of spring flowers
infecting the air we breathe,

the moon on a silent night
releasing all the love in your heart.

You are everything real to me,

the effortless swing
of a swift in full flight,

the rumbling ache
of a thunderstorm gathering pace,

the scorching heat
of a piercing summer sky.

You are everything true to me,

a rose in bud, blooming such a scarlet red
it could rival the desert sun,

a tree in blossom, glowing such a candyfloss pink
you can almost taste the sugar on your tongue,

a bird in song, bursting such a joyful chorus
it can’t help but bring a smile to your face.

You are everything to me,

everything beautiful,
everything real,
everything true,

from here
to the ends of the earth,

to the furthest star
in the remotest galaxy,

doesn’t even come close
to how far my love
stretches for you.

Thank you for being all you are
and all you can be,

thank you for being
everything to me.

The Eye of the World

I saw him tonight
the eye of the world,

he was poised so perfectly
a crescent of beauty

he looked like a white flame
nestled on a slow burn,

with a haze surrounding him
making his arch of sharpness
seem all the more defined.

I’d love to pluck him from the sky
and wear him as my only diamond

polished, with a hint of rough,
yet somehow he seems
perfection itself.

I love how this always happens
my mind wandering and
poetry forming. . .

for as long as I live
I hope the night
will always be an open book

with the moon its spine
and the stars all the words in between,

with the sky my pot of ink
waiting for the touch of my hand,

for inspiration to remain as endless
as the darkness before me,

for as long as I live
for as long as I breathe

may life always be my dream. . .