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.


He stands, stretching upwards,
silent as the emerald eyed,
coal dusted cat, laid out
beneath the hanging brasses.
Unaware of the universe,
of the shimmering reflections
bouncing back.
Shining shards float free,
bound merely by memories,
each face, each fragrance,
each fall from favour.
His personal horcruxes,
his burden to bear home.
She lingers a while, watching
rainbows ride the ceiling,
scores of sunlit days long gone,
ghosts of tender touching moments.
She knows him, yet she knows nothing.

© Copyright 2013 Abigail Baker




They say we will have good
days and bad days.

They claim palliative love is worthy,
and nothing to be feared.

They recommend radiotherapy,
to help keep the lights burning bright.

They promised that chemical injections
would crack the problem, deep inside.

They lied, as energy drained away
and spent more encouraging the growth.

They missed the whole point,
on which your fate was finely balanced.

They tell us everything can be fixed,
one day, after we have slipped away.

They cannot not stop us holding on,
to the last sunrise we share together.

They will only accept your mortality
the moment, your sun is snuffed out.


© Copyright 2013 Abigail Baker



Baring fruit

The bat black fruit hang out
Inverted in the corvid tree.
Bony bare branches hold
a suspicious air of intelligence.
Curious eyes are watching, waiting
for the stumbling man to fall.
It is of no surprise they eat
the critical watching eyes.


© Copyright 2014 Abigail Baker