Settling the Eve

Settling the Eve

In the window, a candle burned on.
Its golden glow brightly shone
Upon shoppers as they struggle home
Laden down, all windswept blown.

It shone upon all children’s sweet smiles,
Sleepy heads sit up a while,
For tales of Christmas and days of old
Beside the fire are being told.

Shining bravely on through dark of night,
The little candle burns bright.
Shelter promised, tea and cake all shared,
Tender ways that show you care.

Soft flakes of snow begin settling down,
As Santa Claus arrives in town.
And everywhere is a Silent Night,
Save the candle, burning bright.




A patchwork of russet and orange leaves swirled, and were sucked up into a whorl despite their sodden weight, then flung against the window where they stuck like those Christmas clings that Holly often saw in shop windows. She paused in her study and looked out, her grey eyes bright under her dark lashes and groomed brows. Shivering, she shifted in her seat and put her cup down and gazed out at the rainy evening.
Across the road shops were shutting, hassled looking people dashed about, some with their Friday night take away treat, some with bags of shopping. A gaggle of Bambi teens squealed as a car sent a tidal wave their way, and Holly smiled remembering the thrill of late night shopping, the cloying scent of the make up counter and the tinkle of cheap jewellery. The fantastic grown up feeling of having coffee out with your girlfriends…

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Just come back, forget him.
Hell! he’ll be fine.
We need this time to make us better.
We need this moment to know ourselves again.
Remember? Remember.

Don’t answer that call.
Your eyes flick to the screen and I know-
The urge is there.
The urge is there.
It’s here.
Just touch me.
Touch me.
Hold me here.

Just come back, forget him.
Hell – he’ll be fine.
We need this time to make us better.
We need this moment to know ourselves again.
Remember? Remember

We don’t need anyone else,
We can survive on oxygen if we need to.
Only need is you.
Only need is me.
We’re here-
Don’t let that go.

Just come back, forget him.
Hell – he’ll be fine.
We need this time to make us better.
We need this moment to know ourselves again.
Remember? Remember

Another early morning-
An Empty space beside me where you lay.
Still breathing you,
Surrounded by you.
I’ll wait,
You know that.
It’s your weapon.

It’s your weapon,
And you wield it so well.
Cleanly, smoothly, samurai sweeps
So that I don’t notice the cuts.
Don’t feel the pain.
Until my salty tears track the shreds of me.

Just come back, forget him.
Hell! he’ll be fine.
He’ll be fine.
We need this time to make us better.
We need this moment to know ourselves again.


The Christmas List

And primed.
After all it’s Christmas time.

Turkey’s on order.
Most gifts bought.

More tape
Gift tags
And bows.
Bigger and brighter
Presents that glow.

And holly.
Keeping quiet
– ’tis the season to be jolly.

Ginger beer?
Plenty to drink
Of that there’s no fear.

And still.
This is how
I prefer my Christmas fill.

Time shared
With the ones I love
And truly care.



A brocade dressing gown.
Silken, with tassels made from Pocohontas’s hair, so much cosier than it looked.
The ruby encased in a silver bouquet, heavy to hold. It felt alive and decadent.
Hummings of a foreign land.
Cut glass decanters, stained and Rubebesque.
Sheer delicacies on a tray of swirls, engraved with letters of another world.
Cups, with saucers.
Softly held while a wireless squawked and squealed undertones.
Coffee. Marmalade. Pay phones.
Ribbons and oxblood shoes.
Feathered friends in colours imbued with tales and stories.
Some told.
Some secret.
Leather books and china figures.
Side plates and cutlery shone.
Gripping to a time passing on.

Such wonders before the eyes of a child, set in train and set in mind. Imagination, desires and memories.
None so bold, none so free.


November Madness

The turn of the season brings woodsmoke, damp air and long days. Navy night skies seep into the evenings until there is little to distinguish the dawn from the dusk. Our squash have all been harvested and stored; the logs piled under the eaves and the shutters are hanging squeaking on the rusty hinges once again.

And I miss you.

I know it won’t be for long. I know it has to be done, and that you’ve made sure that I don’t want for anything.

But I want you.

There is nothing that could replace you. No comfort compares to being at your side. I’m like a tree whose limbs have been cruelly cropped without you.

Cut short.

I didn’t know that early bedtimes could be so attractive.
I want to spend those hours chatting by the fire, sharing wine, dreams and love.
Satisfying every connection that we’ve ever made.

That’s why I’ll wait. I’ll be patient! I swear!
I’ll rein in my memories and dole them out when I really need to. I’ll sleep in your sweater, surrounded by your scent and imaging you here.
I’ll store up my news, my grumbles and my lust; and heap them upon you on your return!

And some nights, the coldest ones, I’ll stay up longer, throw on another few logs & be with you.

Can’t wait to see you!
Can’t wait until November is over!
Can’t wait!



Being ugly was a choice I made. I’ve absolutely no interest in being eye fodder for just another slack jawed, dead eyed tosser who can’t string a sentence together even if his life depended on it.
And being ugly gives me a certain amount of invisibility; where I can gather information on them all. Note their tics, their gives. Note their transparencies and their lies.
And they all lie.
No, they do. Take that creature there, the one with the labels and the whiplash hair flip – she acts all sweet and friendly but I’ve seen her in action and it’s not pretty. Let’s just say it wouldn’t cost a fella a lot to get himself sorted… If you know what I mean. She’s studying in that big posh university ya know, the one where all the ‘celebrities’ send their kids… To turn them into more ‘celebs’.

Being ugly helps me hear things, things lads wouldn’t normally say in front of a girl for fear of upsetting her.
Things that make me feel vindicated, ya know.
Then I know they’re all arseholes.
The things they say about people, the obnoxiousness, the absolute vulgarity of their comments astounds me at times.

I know they’re just sheep but that doesn’t make it any easier.
Why are they so bothered about what women wear? What women look like – and who has given them the authority that they wield? They brandish it about, this badge, this righteousness!
She shouldn’t wear Levi’s – mammy jeans!
What’s the story Tara? Get em out!show yer best side!
What the?
I’d do her then flip her over and do her again
In your dreams!
If she’s old enough to crawl…
That one made me sick.

One day I’ll give it up.
Being ugly. Being invisible.

One day they’ll talk about me.
But I’ll already know what they say.

One day I’ll be more than they think I am.
And then they’ll really know it.
And they’ll still not know me.