Hiding till Grown

Sketching queitly,
soothes a heart
which is shaking
with exhaustion….
This inner child
is held by the
mother of all things….
and therein is her safety.

The winds howl and rage

against the wild, flailing branches

yet she is nestled
in the belly of the Mother tree

It was so hard to
trust when being
alive was so dangerous……
Here she hides
until she is grown up
and holding herself
against these ferocious winds.

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Tossing coins

Sea breaks gently
on rocks, stones and weed,
while voices echo in
sound chambers on
ocean’s edge.
Each step calls
“pick up and leave
the mollycoddled nest
and seek the life within
the spray of the salty winds”.
Is irresponsibility found sealed
in staying or in following the heart…..?
I may never know and nor may you,
unless we do it…..
It is after all,
the same moon above,
either way…….

Yorkshire, East Riding

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Process

Processing
Darkling day is creeping towards dusk.
My ageing feet, stiff with years and fallen tears
are cold….. cold like milk in glass bottles
left outside to stay fresh when mum had no fridge….
My feet were cold then but the open fire
I used like a mirror, sitting in front of it
till legs bright red, ached…. unforgivably.
Thoughts of a cold bed, closed door
and gut twisting shadows, would mangle in my head.
Then, in light of a frost laden morning,
curtains yanked back with ferocious frustration
and single glazed, iced over windows
blasted open, “for air”….
“come on, get up” richoceted in my ears
and placed my bare feet on cold, Marley tiled floors…….
Today’s cold floors are met with slippers,
when alone, no one barks except the cat for food…
and I light the fire, my lovely hearth, myself.
It’s all ok, for the mother in me
now understands better the mother in her…..
It takes time, all this and Time…..never ceases to move;

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