Beyond repair

It barely shows at first
Just a hairline fracture
Nestled beneath the rim

The slow erosion over time
Overuse making it’s mark
On creamy porcelain skin

Pressures of everyday life
Gnawing against it’s existence
Forcing the blemish to grow

Branching out across the belly
Of this old china teapot
Weakening both surface and below

We see them of course
Yet don’t worry about the strain
Continuing to fill it to the brim

As long as it’s job is done
The outcome still the same
We won’t question the state within

Until that one day
Water will seep from the cracks
Dampen wooden worktops
And split open from the pressure
Only then do we acknowledge
And despair at it’s demise

A year ago today

I was introduced to the idea of actually sharing some writing online … oh the horror!

Was my initial thought yet one year later I am glad I did ..

Everyone needs a hobby/ lifestyle/ workplace/ crazy outlet/ creative space/ storage for all the baggage place eh πŸ˜€


Waiting for your ship to come in

If you have never felt it then you will never understand but those of you that have will instantly recognise the feeling.

Those moments when the time seems to slow and you become aware that for some reason you are waiting. Waiting for life to change, waiting for it to start, waiting for the storm to come and tear your world asunder forcing you to move from the island. The island created by you.

Be it consciously or not, you must be aware that you placed yourself on an island, surrounded by a force field which holds you there. Makes you a prisoner of your own making. Are you kept there by fear of the unknown, fear of change or simply a desire to stay in familiar surroundings waiting for the ship to come and save you. Because this seems an easier option..the safer one.

The problem arises when the ship arrives

The seed within

It began just a fleck

A shimmering particle

That settled

Nestled inside a crook

In a crack

Where the olive tree lay


Shielded and withering

Until that one summer day

Where smiles shone like sunbeams

And laughter trickled as rain

Filling the furrows, racing to the heart

Seeping down past the bark

Filtering through sinews

Refreshing the shrivelled core

Pumping life back into these old branches

And waking the buds

Of a dying carcass

Leaving but a sapling

Encased in ancient shards

Hope softly singing

Growing inside a shell that sings no more

Reflection of truth

I look tired heΒ says, but means old
A gaze into the rust stained mirror confirms this
Eyes made red with erosion stare back at me
The reflection of another woman, living another life
Skin worn to a light covering, which hangs
From her cheeks, dull and lifeless
An ashen soul emerging through her bones
Threatening to smash the very existence of her being.
She is a stranger, with her greasy hair flecked with chalk
Pinched lips, exhausted from the daily notions of professing wellness
Nails that would claw a man to death yet snap at the very suggestion
A constellation of freckles spread across her nose, strengthening with age
Her sadness reaches out and I press my palm to hers as if we understand each other’s plight
And though we stand together in this moment

It is her eye that allows a tear to form, but not I