Of evening trains and heart pains

Like those silent strangers,

Blurred faces, musing opposite me

in the boring rumbling ride,

You detach yourself as if

we had never met.


Like the indifference upon these

downcast passenger faces

And their devilish fixation with

books and newspapers.


Do you know who I am anymore?



Windy day


The prettiest sight

I have ever beheld:

The weightless leaves

At every second, held

Mid-flight, then scurrying,

In a flurry of hurry

Chasing each other

No time for introductions

Just silent laughter

As rustling echoes

Impatient in the wind

Dicing cold air

With leaps and spins

The settle a moment –

But only a  moment –

Til up again

With movements so slight

The playful leaves

Take joyous flight.


To forget


Is to leave the mind,

to close that door

left carelessly ajar.


Is to cool old anger

into pale ghosts

and sweep them away.


Is to fight the soft urge

to drown in pity

and in strange embrace.




I saw a man walk down the street,

‘Twas sunset on North Terrace,

His shoes were shiny, hair was neat,

Bedecked in grey suit flawless.

He armed himself with flowers fresh

Clasped in a pink bouquet,

A grin of hope and teeth that flashed

Completed his array.

But woe is he! He fails to see

That by next morning light,

Those pretty flowers dead will be

If not love’s firelight.




smudge of movement


Haphazard like

zig-zag, only

with solemn intent,


Little wings beat

Striking window

in frantic heat.

Remembering those days

from behind a clouded veil,

when I laughed cheekily

and you laughed back.


The trembling wooden carving

painted red and gold,

behind this passion

marked such a flimsy love

that was doomed to end.


Was just a wisp.


A tender moment in which

we leaned our weary heads together,

a firmament of assurance

in which our tired souls

rejoiced, for we were broken.


Was just a brush of hands,

like leaves that fall

shyly about each other

in Autumn’s dampening chill.


Together, we braced

Winter’s displeasure, isolation,

months of killing breeze

in our weathered faces,

upon our weathered hearts.


But with Spring’s stirring song,

your rhythm raced ahead

until a lovely voice became

a distant whisper, detached

and insolent and selfishly joyous.


Summer’s heat seals my chasms,

melting a heavy heart

into easy water.

But neither this sunny reproach

nor the deep, warm winds

can remove what icy shrapnel

you embedded,

so many months ago.