A love song

The clock goes tick, tick, tick, and in counterpoint the evening traffic

Splashes and mumbles its way along the road outside.

And I sit, in the dim glow of a late January afternoon,

Thinking, my thoughts dripping through my mind 

In time with the ticking of the clock.

In your youth, you shouted and cried with impetuous glee, 

And everything shone, it glittered, and sparkled with promise.

And you loved. How you loved, totally, passionately, completely.

But time passed, and first love faded into a few remembered moments.

And then you were less rushed, less hasty.

Again you loved, but this time with intensity,

With pain, and with obsession, and with grim determination

Not to let a moment of this important and life changing 

Relationship escape your fingers.

And, inexorably, love slipped away, ephemeral and fading,

Until one day you looked and saw only the grey embers 

Of the fire of love that had consumed your passing years.

And now, now, sat, with the ticking clock and 

The counterpointing traffic, you fear to love again.

Now you like, are fond of, want to be with, but know,

Know that you should hold back, and take things

Temperately this time, one step at a time.

And in the end, it will all turn to dust, my love, that passion,

The embers, the obsession, the glitter and the sparkle.

And all that will be left will be two people, grey with age,

Sitting, in silence, bar the ticking of the clock, and 

The splashing and mumbling traffic.

(c) 2ndwitch, 19/01/12

Armistice Day

At the going down of the sun, we will remember.

And then, when the sun has set and the neon lights

Are flashing the gospel of discontent, we forget.

The night comes alive as the bars spill out

And the drunken girls sprawl, inelegantly, in the gutter.

The flashing blue lights sweep the streets

And clash and fight with the neon of the clubs.

And then comes the silent night, as dawn strokes

Pink-gold tendrils over the discarded bottles,

And the pools of vomit. But when the sun went down,

Well, then, for a moment, we remembered them.

(c) 2ndwitch, 14/11/11

Bruising need not be visible

Slowly and quietly she turns over in bed, and moves just a little further away.

His arm, like a whip, reaches out and moves her back to the middle

Of the bed, and holds her there.

“Stay still, my dear, stay still.”

And so she lies, motionless, praying he will fall asleep

Soon. His hold tightens.

And then he is turning her, and once again the nightly torture begins.

His hands, his tongue, his very self is probed and forced upon her,

And his weight presses her to the bed, she utters a silent

Scream, and closes her eyes.

And when he is done, the talking begins.

Again. As before. And before. And before.

She is ugly, no one likes her, she has no friends, no one cares,

Her children hate her, he hates her, he has to fuck her as she is all that

Is available to him. She is stupid. She is fat. She is putrid.

She is useless. She should be dead. She is mad. She is a failure.

No man could ever want her, she has let herself go, she cannot cope.

And then, in years to come, when the court case is over, 

No-one seems to understand why she cannot see herself as

Attractive or of value.

(c) 2ndwitch, 04/12/11

I bite the hand

At last, to you, I am not worthless.

But, but, but - - - you measure me by means of

The bottom line.

My value is in pounds and pennies.

My worth is judged by the impact I have on the money

You have

To enjoy yourself.

The cost of things is what matters

To you.

But at long last, someone thinks I am not worthless.

After so many years, to you, I have value.

You see me as a person.

But as a person who is limited by what I deserve;

I deserve so much to be spent on me,

You will buy me such a treat, or such a different treat.

You will be nice to me, and take me out,

And feel good because you are giving to the needy on your terms.

Things, buying, paying, yes, in that way

To you

I have a value, after all this time.

But I am not to be measured by what I can afford.

I am not the sum of the labels I wear.

I am not of less or more value because I do or do not have money.

I do not feel loved or cherished by coffee or food.

I do not feel grateful when someone gives me the dregs

Of what they do not need for themselves.

I am not a charity case, to be patronised and to say thank you

For every little crumb you fancy passing on to me.

I am a person, I have value for myself, money has nothing to do with it.

So really, to you, I am worthless indeed.

(c) 2ndwitch, 7th Jan, 2012

One nail

And in the tree, one nail

One blood, one drop that falls

And in the tree, one nail.

One blood, one drop that falls

And raindrops, clouded tears

One blood, one drop that falls.

And raindrops, clouded tears

One voice, a cry, raised with pain

And raindrops, clouded tears.

One voice, a cry, raised with pain

And the sky, rent by a falling star

One voice, a cry, raised with pain.

And the sky, rent by a falling star

And in the tree, one nail

And the sky, rent by a falling star.

But in one tree, one nail.

(c) 2ndwitch, 26/10/11

December

The iridescent rainbow swirls and eddies

In the water that runs across my path.

Sparkling and shifting under the metallic

Gleam of the steel grey sky.

The gaudy painted van drives

Along rain sodden streets, it’s jingling call

Echoing between raindrops and promising

A taste of summer.

The flashing lights suspended over bustling

People, reflect in shop windows, and offer

A promise that is ephemeral, tantalising,

And demanding consumption.

Spend, spend, and think not of the cost of tomorrow.

Live for today, for tomorrow will never arrive.

And then when today becomes yesterday,

And the credit card statement arrives.

The grey skies weep crocodile tears on the 

Queue for the money lender, and the loan shark

Circles and circles in the polluted pool

Of poverty.

(c) 2ndwitch, 01/12/11

She dared

She walked through the shopping centre, head down, hands clenched

In her pockets, not hearing, not seeing.

Around her swirled the ebb and flow of trivia and soap and life and love,

Blurred into a constant spiral of colour and monochrome.

The plastic warmth, threaded through with the scents of a working town,

Wrapped itself round her aching head, but did not soothe, and did not calm,

Instead it aggravated the sense of sickness and despair.

She felt the invisible ropes that wrenched and tore, pulling her first one way,

Then another, until she did not know which way was forwards and which back.

And like a trap, the ropes pulled her on, slowly and relentlessly, until

The net of lies and deceit were tied round her legs and arms,

And until they covered her eyes and ears and left her blind and deaf.

She sank to her knees, in silent supplication and appeal,

But there was no-one there to rescue her. No-one noticed, they simply,

Carefully and deliberately, walked round her.

(c) 2ndwitch, 15/11/11

The journey

In the darkening of the year lies mystery, and hope

Is buried, brooding and lurking beneath the earth

Till spring. But, like the snowdrops that grow 

Under their November blanket, there comes a time

When the cold of snow and bitter cut of driving rain

Are parted. And then, and only then, the green shoots of

Hope thrust through the matted grass, and the pale

White flower blooms again.

The wild of winter winds, and steely slash of sleet,

Are but echoes of the storm that rages

In the heart of man. 

The driving snow that blizzards across the 

Windscreen of the slowly moving car is but a

Physical manifestation of the storm of words that

Are hurled and flung with acrid hurt from one

Person to another. 

And when the blizzard has settled, and the snow lies calm

Upon the frozen ground, the words will settle too.

Life is no tourist trip or pleasure cruise. There are 

No guarantees of a calm crossing, no

Certainty of a smooth itinerary. Trains will be missed,

And breakdowns will occur, and buses will not run.

But at the end, when the destination is reached, there

Will be time to stand and stare.

There will be time to rest and be still.

There will be time.

(c) 2ndwitch, 18/12/11

The sound of silence

Silence is a powerful thing. 

It is the calm after the storm, before the mending of fences.

It is pause in the eye of the hurricane before hostilities start again.

It is the confidence of understanding between old friends.

It is the pain of misunderstanding between new friends.

It is the wall behind which a thousand million tears can be hidden.

It is the acceptance of that for which there are no words.

It is a weapon, brandished and wielded to hurt and destroy.

Silence is golden.

Silence is silver.

Silence glistens with fool’s gold.

Silence is blue and purple and pink and red.

Silence is black.

It is laughter.

It is pain.

It is sorrow.

It is loneliness.

It is love.

It is hate.

It can hurt,

Caress,

Love,

Wound,

Betray.

Silence.

(c) 2ndwitch, 25/11/11

The train

The train of life is passing through the station.

Stand well back from the platform’s edge.

Be careful not to leave your baggage behind,

Unattended.

Perhaps the next train will stop you can alight.

Perhaps the next train will stop and 

From it will emerge a friend.

The train of life is due on platform three.

Please do not board the train if you do not intend to travel.

And at each station as the train is paused, 

The passengers gaze through the windows and glimpse 

In passing a scene from another life.

The train of life is delayed, please listen for further announcements.

And as the last goodbyes are called through closing doors,

Another scene has passed, and is complete.

The time together is now gone, and cannot be recaptured.

The train of life will be fifteen minutes late, we apologise for the delay.

(c) 2ndwitch, 26/10/11

Winter's Song

When the cold of winter strikes deep into your bones,

And the wind winds its tendrils between your fingers

And clings, tenaciously, to the down up on your cheek,

Tis then you cast your thoughts back upon summer.

The days when the sun just shone, and shone, and you

Thought that you would never be cold again;

The days when the white clouds scudded and frolicked

In a blue sky pool of liquid sapphire;

The nights when you sat beneath the stars whilst

Candles flickered and danced.

And when you creep out from beneath the heated sheets,

And through the window see the snowflakes dance;

When the frost has etched a pattern on the glass,

Tis then you think back to those long gone sun-kissed days.

The days when the rain was soft upon your downy skin,

And washed you clean with gossamer fronds of silken thread;

The days when the breeze blew away the cobwebs of

The winter days long gone, and caressed your cheeks;

The days when the infinite seemed a mere heartbeat away,

And yesterday was a herald for tomorrow.

And in the dark days of the year, the fire burns and crackles

With an echoed capture of sunshine’s rays;

And the silver, blue, red and gold of Yule flash sparks 

To give the promise that one day, one day, summer will come once more.

(c) 2ndwitch, 16/12/11

Dublin, with Joan.

My great grandmother was a Murphy . . 

I viewed the men and women who stood on the waterside.

I gazed at their ravaged faces and the skeletal frames 

That were frozen there in time,

Fossilized by the art of the sculptor, and wondered.

Did I, descendant of an emigrant pst, returned as though in homage,

Have the right to gaze on this, this most personal

Of memorials? Was I an intruder on a moment

Of personal and intimate grief?

The Bog People.

In silent hush, but amongst the milling people who were there to gaze,

To look long and long and to marvel,

I stared in awe at the people from so long ago.

Skin leathered by time and peat,

Face preserved in death’s anguish and the 

Scream of death preserved deep and dark,

So many years had passed, and yet they lay

As if they fell to sleeping only yesterday.

Death is amongst us all, and will not pass away.

1916.

As though the clock had melted and melded time

Into a swirl of Guinness in a glass,

I stood and stared at the towering walls, the place

That had stood the test of melting time,

Punctuated only by the bullet marks of despair.

Bullet marks; echoed by the round remains of the coins

That were minted before, today, tomorrow,

Currency of time that melts and swirls

Like Guinness in a glass.

(c) 2ndwitch, (20th April 2011)

The road goes . . .

One foot, then one foot, then one foot, then one foot - -

So the journey begins.

Continues, and continues.

Hand held out by a small child, ignored.

Footsteps falter and stumble, but do not fall.

Hand held out by a small child, still ignored.

And the journey, begun, continues,

And continues, and continues.

A hopeful face as the hesitant teen glances round

And waits for someone to smile.

And waits, and waits, and waits.

The journey carries on, and on,

As, one step at a time, the young woman

Ventures to hold her head up high.

Pride, hard bought, ill fought, and fragile,

Vies for supremacy.

Sometimes it wins, and sometimes

It loses.

And still the journey carries on, the road

Now travelled winds and bends and twists,

Climbs the hill, then, when the top is reached,

Plunges down and down, but on, ever on.

And now she slows her steps to the pace of another

Who has joined her journey.

Together, perhaps, or apart, perhaps,

One day the journey will come to an end.

(c) 2ndwitch, (19 April 2011)

A walk in the park.

The heart of the city pulses with sonorous beat,
Whilst at its centre there is a stillness.
A stillness where a man sits
And contemplates the soft, grey day,
And the play of gentle light on newborn trees.

But do you ever listen to me?
Do you ever actually take any notice of me?

The ducks splash and quack their way
Round the lake, dodging boats being pedalled
By indulgent dads for holidaying sons.
And on the bench a man sits,
Eats lunch, then mounts his bike and rides off.

We have had this conversation so many times before,
And it makes no difference.
You agree with me, then nothing changes.

A toddler runs down the slope of the path
And is drawn to the gap in the wall,
Held back by kindly hands from passing through
And joining the ducks in the water.
In princess pink, she holds her mummy's hand tightly
And they walk around the lake.

Do you want to make this work, do you
Even care about me?
Is it worth trying again, and again, is
There anything left between us to save?

Lights flash, pastelled by the grey feathered spring
Fronds of cloud filtered sun, as the fair
Prepares
For another night of loud music and public
Enjoyment, and of candy floss and toffee apples.

It is easier to stay the same, to tolerate
From day to day to day to day the tedium
Of no-man's land that has grown between us.
To live our lives in monochrome.

Standing proud and foursquare over the trees,
Above the lake, watching the fair, and
Glinting a benevolent window-paned cornucopia
Of eyes on the people and boats that play
Around her skirts, stands the hall.

And I am not prepared to live my life in greys
And browns and mists and shadows.
I want to walk in the sunlight, and taste again
The ice cream sharpness of excitement, and love,
And to hold your hand in mine, because
You want me to.
If we can't do that again, then I think
That this day in this urban park,
In the still centre of the city's
Hurricane,
Will be our last together.

(c) 2ndwitch, April 14th, 2011

Waltz Time

(A poem for Ruth Tudor)

In the slow waltz that is the end of life, the steps falter and fail,
But the music that guides us all continues apace, no break
In the rhythm, no pause, no endings.
What we knew, the person who lived in the skin we saw,
Whether wrinkled or smooth, old or young, whoever
Or however, lives on in those who know then, and dances
Still to the slow waltz tune.
The words they spoke, the smiles that lit their face,
The wisdom that remains, the folly, the anger,
The pain, the laughter, all remain, all remain.
And our hearts hold the memories that still dance
To the slow waltz at the end of life.
Love does not die, it only changes, grows softer,
Grows moire blurred, less no longer cuts like
A knife. It does not stir the soul, but instead
Calms and smooths the scars within.
Love dances still to the slow waltz that
Is at the end of life.
One, two, three, one, two, three,
Turn, turn, and back, we all dance the
Steps that measure the waltz that is at the
End of life.
It is no ending though, just one more beginning,
One more new dawn, one more new day.
Take it in your arms, and fit your steps,
To the slow waltz that is at the end of life.
And at the beginning.

(c) 2ndwitch 18/01/11