As she stood, she blinked back
the sun saturated dust motes.
Like a crash landed butterfly, crumpled
shoulders slumped to the base
of this dirty sunbeam slant.
It was a strange slightly alien place,
and yet familiar, like a family photograph.
Once she used to live inside the lines,
now it felt like she had been left behind.

It was eerie in the empty station,
all those daily faces had vanished,
evaporated as the water ran dry.
A dusty town, an empty mind
no timetables adorned the walls
no sight or sound of the next train calling.
The bluebird’s song is long since gone,
a ghostly chink of china rides the breeze.
Her thoughts echoed off the empty
platform, as all the nameless, faceless,
shameless pushed on by.

© Copyright 2016 Abigail Baker


After the autumn rains have past
I see them sigh
in the pitch velvet night, I crack a smile.

As they soundly sleep
I silently retrieve
this stolen warmth away.

Then with the dawn tumbling
down a vertigo blue sky,
ice rattled air marks an iron punch frost.

Awake they scuttle, shivering
breath blowing dragon clouds of vapour
racing to kindle fire.

The winter sun bows low submitting
to my bidding, hidden among bare branches
failing to pierce shadows of ivy and mistletoe.

Huddled they listen to the whisperings of snow,
the white queen is in ascendance now.

© Copyright 2016 Abigail Baker

Welcome to 2016


With spring’s breeze
gently pulling at our coat
we must arise,
shake off the ashes of regret.
With plumes of fire
once again take flight,
soar in pleasure of song
without need for musical

© Copyright 2016 Abigail Baker


Like the trumpets playing softly
stroke the rhythm of loose thoughts,

today I find it held in little pockets
snug as the bumble bee in a foxglove.

Yesterday it submerged me whole,
carried inside each falling raindrop.

Sometimes it merely whispers
lifting stray hairs off pale temples.

Precious as the living ivory walks,
sought keenly like those bleeding –

diamonds, deep below the collapsing
soil and sun of mother Africa’s smile.

Elusive it remains a Wil-‘o-the-wisp
uncatchable, it clings when least expected.

© Copyright 2013 Abigail Baker

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