Different Dreams

We conjure up the dream,
the cottage in the country

with its white picket fence,
the two point four children

and meat and three veg dinners,
the evening cops and robbers shows

on the tv in the corner. The dream
where we'd all work,

where needs were all well met,
and luxuries were the norm.

We lived it until the bubble burst,
the market crashed, petrol skyrocketed

until a Sunday drive turned
into afternoon walks

and the house was filled again
with the scent of hot homemade bread

from a different distant dream.

Saving grace for you

I'll pray for peace for you,
no matter that the sicknesses
are tearing your body apart,

wish for love and kindness,
for more sunrises than you can imagine,
for morning bird song and rainbows

and waterfalls. I'll wish for grace
that will carry you through, grace
that will guide you and me.
A saving grace.

Not everyone looks

I run them through my fingers, stones
cold and smooth to the touch, as if in some way
they can reassure me. A rosary could be chanted
in the space between each, a moon rise
welcomed by photographers, a dawn
promising the best of days - all
these things lift my eyes
to where I believe you settle. Not everyone
knows how to see you. Not everyone looks.

Some Days

Some days are bland,
grey sky spread to the horizon,

meals that don't tempt, nor
touch the sides as they're swallowed,

morose head-hanging
as if the economy sits inside, dragging

you down when all it takes
is one wrong move, or a silence

misconstrued for 'don't care'.
And then there are the others,

where one wink will set off bells,
disarm the most wary and leave them

panting, down on their knees
praying for more.