It is hard to explain to those who do not know,
the depth of entanglement that can exist between women.
No a longer a moment, but a knotted thread that cannot be unpicked
by even the brightest painted fingernails,
or snipped at by the sharpest, sewing scissors.
A snarl at the core looks with brilliant eyes and says,“yes,I know you.”
Body and soul, I know you.
For we are cut from the same imperfect stuff
and a line of stitching leads us back, always back.
There comes a point where you finally trust that it always will,
for how could it ever not?

They are laughing at us, you and I; the old women
who weave the world and set that entanglement to begin.
We spent so many years wondering where the path would go,
little did we know that we need not have wondered at all.
A cord around the wrist sealed in blood.
A spindle’s mark to keep us.
If there are between us, spells of silence, know this
My Everything Girl, know this;
It is simply because you need never compromise your dreams for me.
They are so precious. It only means I did not know
how to tell you when it mattered.




Sunlight shifts across the balcony.

In the early morning beat of the cicadas,

cyprus and lemon, salt tang and dust

hang in the rising heat.

He spoons thick yoghurt into my bowl,

pauses, pours the yellow, orange and thyme

scented honey over it, slowly.

I reach for his hand, his slim brown fingers,

and kiss them. Still salty

from the sea and last night’s love.

He smiles, his eyes full of a darkness

I have yet to find the bottom of.

Were we still very young there would have been

gauloise to go with the coffee,

sweet smoke drifting through the lemon grove.

But instead of smoke there is a clarity,

a love that becomes more simple for all its complexity of years.

A calm settles around us. I follow his eyes to the horizon,

where an inky blue line joins sky and sea.

September 2015