still here

watching tears roll down splashing onto dark blue weaves of wooly jumper. They slide over pale cheeks and tremble on the tip of a button-nose. If I kissed them they would taste of salt, wet on my lips, cold on my tongue. They glue lashes to one-another.
If I touched those scars they would be rough. Hills and mountains under my fingertips. Tiny rows, neat, tidy. Purposeful.

Life and that

The sun is battling the wind, putting on a show and warming peoples faces, but this island which is an isthmus will create havoc, rain clouds on the way for tomorrow. A tui chases a sparrow from his prime spot nestled in the blooms of red and yellow nectar. I like to watch the way the wind blows, it doesnt feel cold on my skin anymore.

6 days before adulthood

I am struggling to tell what will shatter the world with words, how is it that I run down the hill easily sidestepping any curb threatning to tip the tight fragile balance of normal. When I leave this life a hole like a shadow will stand in my place so I will leave things delicatley as they are in order to slip back unharmed. A mother will be a granny I'm sure of it. Aren't we happy?

Fire sirens

We arrived hot sweaty, excited anticipation, avoiding a scrumpy stubby rose bush, falling out and grabbing whatever and whoever, inside, stuffy hot crowded with age old relics of old old generations. Perfection. Cobwebs next to buckets, grass burned to straw. Breaking through dust that settles comfortably between years weeks days waiting for the next lot of bachers. Heat that can only be broken one way. Umbrella, towels and legs stick haphazardly into sun and sand. Salt that stings eyes and a type of refreshing cold that evaporates when you leave the blue. Hunger always drives you. Back to the small weather boards cobwebs and hay like grass. A dinner that has been preceedex by far to many snacks to feel comfortable. A smell lingers on cloth, sweet, musty a familiar stranger. Sun sets and wide smiles cartwheels and those dreaded few photos. Driving now. Hair in the wind, imagine dreadlocks
snaking from brown scalp. It is the right time to sink into the island listen for early morning-10am fire sirens. Something must be left behind in order for an excuse to be made to come again. The beds are decorated profusely proud in pink shagpile dating back to before I was born. Another night sticky hot in summers sheets. A night full of promises and remembrance and sleep. Listen for the little morning sounds, bird whistles? Dishes, bed spreads, yawns and stinking breath. Beach, pee, food, ice cream ok no more you'll have to roll me up hill. A mother stands in a different universe the mainland one. She doesn't sink into the island dirt as much as we know we do.

11 days before growing up

Driving in baking hot, windows creating a frizzy mane of brown teased hair. So much to think about I'm a bit distracted when I'm with you, I'm a bit distracted because I don't have a clue.

Back with a lover

Yellow curtains that are totally ineffective, I can see them from where my head is resting on a brown broad shoulder. Fingers trace lines. This time I will remember. We stalled and it has taken time to find the clutch
to invent that thing called trust? Forgetting to hold on to the past. Thrown into today, cautious about tomorrow totally scared about next week. There is no present, time is going to quickly to think about trusting myself with loving you. The things we have taken without asking, in your eyes I see mine, wild pillow hair.
Midday and the lightis no longer filtering in, it pierces through our cocoon. My wings are out drying, imagine
yellows and oranges and the tips magnificently red. Yours would be black and electric blue. It's harder to fly when your wings haven't dried. Let's sit and wait awhile

winter wonderland edition 8

An old bus grumbles past changing gears and stumbling up hill. Dust soldiers stand to attention, 10 thick, impossible to see through. A bike and its rider sit still in the dawn light. Out there, content, are islands, a boat all white, smooth sails and tight rigging rides and slips accross boulder coloured waves.

At sunset skin glows brown orange, warm. When crickets chatter sleep is found for everyone but the watchman holding onto thick ropes and guiding his sails by the stars.

winter wonderland 7 - typed in sweden

Malu's hair gathered white, cold dust. ´Positioning herself comfortably Malu stood leaning her weight on a dark green lantern light pole. Her face was one of curiousity, pondering concern. Usually they should have marched accross by now. Malu didnt own a watch, the enormous church clock always gave her time. The boys were very late. A sister waited somewhere warm. A corner shop prehaps, sitting in the library.

Malu thought, maybe they arent walking today, shooting practice prehaps? There hadnt been a day Malu hadnt waited on the end of the bridge. If it was just a glimpse of the brown curls tucked under the blue ridgid cap. Or the sight of his long legs she was satisfied. At least she knew Matiu had not been killed. Yet.

Winter wonderland edition 6 - typed in sweden

Twenty-two boots squelched on icey snow. The feet skipped a little out of rhythm, it was neccesary to break the endless march otherwise they would find themselves and the golden crown of the monarchy crashing onto the thin whispering sheets of ice below them. At the end of the bridge a little girl squatted in white snow, listening to the sound of the boots. Much to her delight it sounded quite like a small winged plane dipping down from the always-grey sky.

winter wonderland 5

tomorrow will be another plane, a different city, a strange tongue twisting language.