silver blue swallow

(little story written on my way to paris)

silver and blue swallow decided it would be about time and a good idea to travel to paris by eurostar

"dont you think being in the tunnel will be a triffel claustophobic?" said the passenger who was sitting in the seat next to silver blue swallow

"not really" she replied, it will be bit like travelling at night and the train will remain the same size in any case".

"yes" said the passenger, trying to get her point across "but you wont be able get out if you want to and i find that a bit of a claustophobic thought"...

"well would you want to get out" shivered silver and blue swallow
"in a damp, dirty, cold and filthy tunnel?"

"no" said the passenger "i would want to get out to a soft green sunny meadow with blue butterflies and purple roses".

"well you're on the wrong train and in the wrong season!" exclaimed silver blue swallow
"for it is winter, the roses are few, if not non-exsistant, and the meadows you speak of are covered in snow!".

the passenger, feeling a little misunderstood , decided to keep her thoughts to herself from there on in, while silver and blue swallow ate her packed lunch while scimming the newspaper for funny jokes or cartoons.

- - -

just sometimes loneliness comes a wandering
like a sad grey donkey
dragging his hoofs in the sand

eye lashes

you woke up
for your fingers to find the piano
they smelled there way there
then their they sat
hoovering up notes
sucking them up, and then letting their sound
fall down

your voice made a story
about her
her in bed with your three
multi-coloured kittens

her eye lashes making wings
for her eyes dreams
carrying
to where winter meets the side of spring
to where grasses grow long and deep
and get sprinkled softly with tiny white
and crimson flowers

~ Oc ~~

i dont know why he meant so much to me
or even whether he was a he
an orange and white tail and so many fins
sailing like the tail of kite behind him

i found him being chased around a pet shop
by a dark blue fighter fish who was nipping his tail
so i had to rescue him

i brought him the biggest fish bowl i could find and a bubble filter
it was so beautiful
he would swim around like an ornament
his tails like a wedding gown
he was my pet. my dog.
replacer.

after a few days he started to get ill,
little sick fish who couldnt swim so well
his little tail dragging along
like a long heavy white and orange veil

the man in the pet shop said i might try feeding him a pea
so i thawed one out, cut it into the smallest pieces and placed them on the floor of his fish bowl
but after swimming around a little more
he was sick and chucked them up
the chewed up pea parts landing bright green coloured on his fish bowl floor

he died slowly
like an old man
slower and less and less able to swim his little body

the last stage took forever
the fish bowl and extravagent rest home
then coffin.

eventually i threw him to the sea
which ate him up greedily
he had 17 names or more but i cant remember one of them
but i do still remember
little fan tail white orange and golden fighter fish nipped bride

him

his favourite colours were white and red
he liked simple things
he liked to wear red shoes and watch
their white footsteps in the snow

he had a little white dog
who looked like and lamb
and was lost in the scenery
if it were not for his little black nose

he liked quiet places
and to watch the silent movement of snow fall
he liked love
he liked to see love in everything
like giving snowflakes hearts...
imagining a heart in the middle of every one as it fell
tiny, but shinning

he liked to be lazy
he liked staying in bed all day
and to return to he bed quickly enough
that it was still gently warm
in the place where he had been laying

cherries

(poem about an old lady i saw standing at the bus stop)

like a leaf she was blowing
in her thick purple woolen coat
waiting by the side of the road, in the sunshine
her feet touching the floor
with the same conviction
as the final few leaves
who hold to the branches of trees
in late autumn

as the bus arrives
she holds out a hand clutching
a red and white poker spotted handkerchief
which blew itself in the wind
and as the bus pulls over
she is imagining being young
and collecting cheeries from trees
with her red and white poker spotted handkerichief tied to her wrist
and blowing itself gently in the breeze

those days

(about childhood)

people often ask children what their favourite food is,
especially when they were as skinny as me.
milk-white hair and a little tooth-pick body

'what is your favourite food?' they would ask
'pancakes' i would reply
'and also, corn on the cob'
and does it have to be on the cob? they would ask
'yes' i would answer and i would wonder how it could be corn on the cob if it wasnt on the cob.

strange i thought, and would get on with turning myself upside down and the right way round til it was time for bed