By the sea

Down by the seaside
they said would be best.
My mind, still crawling the wall,
is distracted enough not to care.

Though I have been washed out,
laundered ‘til dryer than apricot,
I can feel her flickering now.
My arms ache to hold on.

They do not understand my silence.
Staring, I hold up my Persil bio face
to the mirror. Does it reflect their hopes,
my lies, their dreams, my nightmares?  

I would be a fool not to hate
all she had created,
her violet kisses,
haunting my creases,  

hollow in my collarbones
matching my crevice cheeks
tear-streaked from longing.
I will go and suck the ocean!  

Better a bitter salted lemon
than watch you running
brown eyed, red dressed,
through a field of forsythia
that will burn at your funeral.

© Copyright 2012 Abigail Baker

Fire in the Wardrobe

It started with a single spark
From where no-one could say
A momentary flicker, a question mark
Quietly smouldering under the years
Contained, hidden alone in the dark  

Slowly feeling an increasing heat
A burning need for knowledge
Thirst for answers you did not meet
Coat tails of tradition started to singe
Forming acrid fumes of possible deceit  

Was there maybe another way
Beyond the fur-lined forest edge
A lantern shining prism cut rays
Across a snow covered mindscape
A creeping feeling of one betrayed

As the door opened the flames burst out
Decades old artefact, varnished spitting
Apple wood splintering, whining, devout
Pages curling, images burning, a lion, a witch
Vanishing into the grey ashes of doubt.  

© Copyright 2012 Abigail Baker

Why run?

You seem to think in black lines
that slide away from front to back,
running towards a distant skyline
pink yet delicately smudged with grey.

Rushing towards your rubicorn,
a vanishing spot on the event horizon.
You no longer appreciate natural magic,
it pales in the glare of techno wizardry.

You drop toys of imagination and innocence,
replacing them with lipstick and lies,
dancing with deviousness and disgrace.

When you reach your precious target,
will it be to look longingly back.
To sigh and wonder why
did you not appreciate the colours,
or get your face painted with butterflies.

To lick the mixing bowl of childhood clean,
savouring those blissful summer evenings.
When the worse of your worry lies
in the start of term, come september.

The Hill House

There is a house that sits
Between the wing beat of bats,
The ovation of tawny owls,
The velvet pawprints of cats.
Inside the whispering of fairies
high above the bed,
The sigh of a sleeping dragon,
The books that must be read.
Within the gentle sound of laughter,
The muffled hum of a radio,
The scent of breakfast starting,
The savoured taste of local ale,
The feel of frosted glass on your fingertips,
The magic of marmalade fire
The emergency bottle of cabernet.
And the view spread over the valley
In a sunlit summer’s dawn.

February 1996

Feeling sick as yellow daffodils
Yet to make an annual appearance.
That day the air was sharpened
Biting their ears like rifle shots.

They had parted with a whisper,
a kiss, echoes of hard words
Dulled by a silencer of stiff upper lip.

The key turned, the engine fired
Driving, such statistical hazard
Passing rural nameless faces,
Wood pigeons calling for calm.

Life rolled forward on tarmacadam
The office hummed coffee flavoured
idle gossip. Before the phones rang
And daily dirge of calls commenced.

Inside the busy bubble of monotony
For a second it slipped from thought
Until time stopped, sound sucked back.

Until the distance voice was drowned
Out amid the sirens blaring out
She called him, no answer, she waits.

London had coughed, then continued.
Later on, when her anxious breath released
he mentioned, the bus had been cancelled.

Crumpled lines

This crumpled piece of paper
Squashed in to a screw ball
Tossed carelessly in the corner
Edges torn with embarrassment
Fibres soft from salty tears
Creases join to tell a journey
Underneath the ink unread.
Her words are waiting,
Who will walk to care
Would you stop and stoop
Do you see her eyes shine
Will you listen to her lines
The brindle lurcher gives a whine.

Sea horse

The blame always lies.
A dog flicks its ear away,
towards the seashore’s edge.
You can hear the horses calling,
mother did you forget me?
The moon is riding the veil,
blood stains drag at her skirt hem.
We will not weep the dawn of oceans.
This power is not in action, but
In the choice to remain still.