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

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 rubicon,
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.