Cinderella

I limp every step to my room,

find a familiar bed;

lose guitar and piano and drum,

all that was said;

turn back towards adolescence

like now I’m an expert in love

but to face ugly sisters and silence!

Was he having a laugh?

Bright Snow

Light is bright outside Peterborough station, high

above a fey half-moon leads my eye up to air:

inside, we face each other – chatter differently

and this cafe bubbles, burns, declares

‘the snow fell as big as footballs’, ice

and hubbub lay a thick carpet, nobody reads

because snowfall centres talking. Minutes pass

and we don’t know if there’ll be a train to Leeds;

‘snow in our drive’, ‘skidding cars’, vroom-vroom.

Outside, sun and moon still burn. How

isolated each face is,

connected by breath, steaming coffee, talk of home;

exiled by flakes, by white stuff and brought into now

by a billion little changes. Longing for our villages.

Hot Blood

A bluebottle flies around our bedroom,

even though it’s winter outside – sub zero

and central heating turns and soon clicks off

tonight; you wouldn’t want to be that creature

buzzing in a slowly freezing world

now, would you, when there’s no help to offer?

Tomorrow we’ll arise unlike our insect-friend,

unfeeling sheets and duvet, balmy blood;

that’s the difference – inner warmth

we share with others, keeping humans soft,

un-insect like:

and hot.

Answer

If I could construct

a spiritual pathway

it would revolve

and lift a spiral

beyond any roof.

We’d walk in water

with both feet on earth,

because of the steepness

gasping for air.

To get into truth

we would poke at a bonfire

and yell at the moon

letting out light.