Me as a Memory

I think if I were looking for re-incarnation
I would come back as a dried flower
one that could be sat in a copper vase,
or perhaps plain plastic as copper
would likely be stolen, sat on the front edge
of a grave. I could see the mourners,
detect the true depth of sorrow
that some may carry, detect the fake.
I would become colourless, a mottled grey
eventually, that would blend in with headstones
and weathered concrete that only lichen
caress. I would watch you closely,
and determine how deep you feel
the passing, of friends, lovers, me
even though I know I am merely a momentary
lapse in your life. Perhaps
as a dried flower you would give me more attention
a glance at least, a tear, perhaps
you would keep me as a memory then.

Road Trip - Booking

Maybe I'll book in advance
for the renowned beauty
of the Chateau, where mountains
fill glass walls and sunsets
turn snow caps to gold, maybe

I'll take my chances
and stop en route
at a hotel, avoiding
the teal carpet and vinyl kitchen
brigade that are off the beaten track,
up lampless side streets
were there is little traffic
and a dozen homeless street walkers
sniffing glue and living dreams.

Two things are for sure,
the food will be cheaper
on sage green plates
and mismatched utensils
than on mahogany
and cream carpet, and

I can't wear satin
and pearls at a backpackers,
nor stoned denim and sandals
at the Chateau.

A miscarriage of justice

Twenty years ago today
I lost you, barely
a speck within my womb
aborted spontaneously
the doctor said,
while nasty images ravaged my mind.
All I wanted was to keep you safe
to nurture you and when you were ready
to hold you in my arms.
Why couldn't you wait?

Listen

If I listen carefully
I can hear the clouds race across the sky,
I can hear the parched dirt crack
as it waits for autumn rain,
and I can hear the liquid amber leaves
chatter of falling,
of their slow and brilliant death.
I can feel the excitement of grass
as it quivers in anticipation of the earth's cooling,
I can feel the arch of cobbles
as they rise up to greet the last days of heat,
and the sun on my back that says goodbye
in advance.

There are white wings in my garden
holding tight until age
times their release
allows them to fly,
to capture the breeze
that will carry them far away
on a day when the sun
catches their intent
waves them on with warmed fingertips
and watches them settle
to sew,
to seed,
to grow.