Let your lips meet gently,
the top one resting against the lower,
touching with tenderness
your own skin to skin.

Forefinger propped on chin,
I let the others dangle,
like leaves on a branch;
how softly gravity tugs them downwards.

Let heart beat quietly,slowly
as the blood circulates
carrying its music,
a river,
following the path of least resistance.

How the blood vessels receive willingly this flow,
touching it kindly as with tiny open fingers,
helping and being helped.

How the hair on the head
floats
on the breeze,
like tentacles of an octopus
waving goodbye.

Top eyelid loves the lower one;
as we blink they touch
like lovers kissing swiftly
behind a tree.

and how the light comes in
we see a world.
[mine may not be yours]
but the blink of my eyelid
sends waves through the air,
so we’re all touching and being touched,
lips kissing each other,
kiss all living creatures.

skin to skin.
air to air.

And inside us,the rich darkness
of creative night
transforms,in turn,
these touches
into dreams.

About the journey, what to say,
That the infinite task was finite,
That what seemed impossible is almost done?
Mainly struggling with interior problems
Projected onto this heap of clothes and books
Maybe I took the wrong path, made a detour I didn’t need.
Maybe the struggle itself made me strong enough.
Now I sit weary, with a mug of tea by my side.
A channel opened and I was able to receive your gifts.
Now it’s not dark but a grey cloud is hanging low.
It feels like spring again

Playing on the high wires of space-time
Holding time back for an instant then diving
Into the unmapped depths  and deeps
Pulling space here and there
Why did they not tell us, music has its own geometry
Like  on the Spanish guitar , one second is not the same as  another
One holds back then runs, another steps out and waits.
It’s the mild tension and music in our bones that makes us sing and dance.
And they try to capture this on graph paper, oh so neat!
Maybe that is just to stop us falling off the edge of the world
As we gyrate.And is this not what the birds say in their whirling?
As we trudged home from school was it not this we  longed for?

As I reflect, I am caressing one hand with the other,
the way I might apply hand lotion.
Or my lover might.
My elbows are on the arms of this old chair.
When I am puzzled, I place
the palm of my right hand
Over the back of the left and pull it to and fro,
as if to ease out a thought;
ask for a gift,
or pull it out of this hand by magic.
I write a line then sit up straight.
My lips are pursed;
I look up as if asking God to help
but I’m looking inwards
where a dream image may float by.
My left foot taps on the carpet,
calling the dead to return.
Now I’m  kneading my hands, I am anxious.
I  am uncertain.
I can’t say what I want.
I  intertwine my fingers, pull on them both ways
while looking out of the window.
The sap is rising  in the shrubs
and though no leaves  open
The branches and twigs have more color
than last year.
But you were here last year.
I bite my lip and narrow my eyes;
Who am I fighting?
Now my hands stretch and relax;
I smile.
The mind lives in the body.
Where?
The mind is the body.
How?
I frown in confusion and slight anger
at him for going.
It’s coffee time.
The door bell rings.
I stand up.

• As we come nearer,
  I feel your warmth.
  Warmth draws me in
  I see you here.
  I touch you tenderly.
  My hand
  on your face,
  on your skin,
  acknowledges your being.
  At this boundary of the world and you,
  we touch.
  I feel that peaceful breath,
  the spirit,the wholeness of the flesh.
  Touching gently,
  we acknowledge the Otherness
  the holiness of life itself,
  in the form of the Beloved.

The word is  right yet destitute,
Does not fit the sentence
Has no place.
The word is  spoken rarely with no pleasure
Is not welcome where it reaches
Has no anchor.
It has no companions,hence no prosody.
Can’t be knitted;
Has no mooring.
The word is dying. I say it never lived;
Cannot be mentioned,
Creates no order.
The word is made from letters
Yet  they congeal and kill
Ironically ,some call it liver.
I call it stranger.

The hospital was the best  place   for you to die.
Nurses, neat as sparrows, ran to and fro
Blankets used in the Himalayas warmed you
They kept you
Clean and tidy.

For three hours
The Sacred and the Profane intersected
I sang you away on a river of music
And you  floated out of  our world
Hearing my childlike  high voice.

Maybe you thought I was washing up
Or making you a drink in the kitchen;
And I was your mother as well.
The good mother who kept her premature child alive
Who kept a good larder
Baked bread and  played games with   you and your Dad.

Did you know what was happening?
I think you did and  you wanted me to help you.
Help you out?
How a  little audience had gathered.
Now we have  no rites,the chaplain was absent
Absent too the priest.

I had to make it up…. like a game,but it was real.
You smiled and winked as if to say
I’m sticking around but you won’t see me.
So much love in  your eyes…
What can I do but be glad?
And be sad….but we made it.

Birds,unlike humans, can fly across the barriers
Avoid the checkpoints,need no identity papers,  permits
Or gold stars.
Brothers,why were you separated?
Why could Palestine not be left as one where ,
as in Andalusia before the madness of Inquisition,
you lived together 500 years of peace
Until Christian conformity and suspicion
Tormented and killed you both?
It is we you should be fighting against
Not each other
Are you our own Roman Games?
You ,in the Arena we watch on our screens
We can turn them off but you,brothers and sisters, are still there
.And your children.
What remains for any of us?

Tangled lives

She walks in a deserted landscape of monotone colours.
Big with child,she crosses this rough terrain alone,
without a Joseph to protect or a donkey to carry her.
no inn nor stable is here.No cattle nor sheep
nothing alive.
Now she feels her labour pains coming;
Lies down amongst the rocks to wait
Here is an anonymous,faceless figure.
Pronounces himself a doctor.
She labours; he picks up her son.No Messiah nor Oedipus;
Without speaking,he conveys to her,this child has died.
Not ever held in the arms of hie mother
Nor father either.
He’s tossed, light as a few feathers,
light as a bird
onto a pile of bodies nearby.
Whose unwanted children are these?
Stil lying flat and weary with grief,
she observes her child-
one of many there.
Days pass and strength returns.
Stands now and walks over to say,Farewell.
The child opens his eyes;
Mother,they say,shining.
Holds him and presses him into herself for warmth…
Which way to go and when?
No signs, no maps…
Is there a right way?
Is there a guide?
Why was she journeying this way?
She remembers nothing
She has lost almost everything .
Steps forward..and walks on.
What other choice is there?

My husband came from Durham so I was fascinated by this owl.One of his friends said he had some in a holly tree outside his bedroom window when he was a child

short-eared durham owl
meditating over the dale's edge,
shadows the fields and folds
in elegant diurnal flight.

on windside,careful sight,
may swoop to prey
and away.

your yellow broad-eyed look,
at once both sharp and distant,
holds me.
oh,silence,
oh,wind on green,
oh, earth,
sky.

immense your held vision;
sphere without centre,
pied geometer of flight,
sketch your descent and ascent.

trees bunched by dry stone wall
call heart home.

• I see a light fuzz of hair on your head

  like the softness of just opening leaf buds in spring.

  The chemo is over,and you wait relieved and letting that

  take you for a while before you start to face the next stage.

  Will your Spring turn to a warm enchanting Summer

  or has the cancer,as they say ,”spread.”

  Just for now,you’re in that lull

  so in three weeks time you will not be

  arriving for another session of drugs

  and days of sickness.

  I see the light fuzz which reminds me

  of how the cat’s fur grew back after her surgery

  and she,being unable to reflect or question,

  leaped from the fence top onto next door’s kitchen roof;

  no thought in her mind of stitches breaking.

  How beautifully the patterned fur returned

  and the vulnerable skin was covered again.

  Oh,to look into those eyes and see you dream

  about mice that live behind the shed

  and how you sat watching for hours

  and how you were alive till the very last moment.

  Then , all of a sudden,you were gone.

  Pray it will not be so for the fragile,loving human

  now waiting and living,hoping for what you took for granted…

  a “normal” life span Or maybe just three quarters of one

  would be satisfactory;would be a beneficence

  such as trees feel when the sap turns and begins to flow back.

  bringing life out of the darkness of earth and soil.

  And another Summer comes at the right time

  and we find it, shall we say, satisfactory?