This Is What I Learnt Today

One, mountains that look
Quite pretty from your window
Are a mere white line on your phone.
Two, people in hot countries far away
Are not amused at being shown
Mountains on FaceTime. Three,
If you have slippers, socks, and a puppy
Eventually they will all lie crumpled
And sodden on the balcony. Four,
If you’ve learnt much more,
Set it aside for tomorrow, so that
Each full day may lend its fullness
For a still empty day to borrow.

End Of The Road

If there’s an ocean at the end
Of the street, even the puddles
Seem headed that way. The huddled
Buildings, grey and blue, bend
Their angular corners towards the hills
If the end of the street so wills.
I think, as my feet aimlessly wend
Their way down foreign streets,
That there must be a mountain,
An ocean, a future, to meet.

Cry Me A River

You see that streak in the middle?
That looks like a river? It was actually
A little sliver of rain, just a drop, really,
The only one left after the wind
Had dried the rain that fell constantly
That day. I wanted a picture
Of the mountains streaked with ice
Vivid under the flat grey of the skies
And I didn’t see that single streak
Slipping down the glass windscreen
Carving a seeming crevasse on the peak.
You won’t notice, unless you’re very near,
The mountain, moved by a tear.

One Day…

…soon after summer was almost gone,
I saw what it had done to an old photograph.
The blues had become maroons, the reds
Bled into dark greens. Faces paled into half
Bleached shades of forgotten friends.
My anger emerged in livid shades of bile.
I took down all my pictures and made a face-down
Pile. We turned our faces determinedly away
From this light that had turned our nights to day
How wickedly seduced into believing
That the winter darkness and our sadness had anything
To do with each other. Now another
Spring woos me. Shows me how the past year
Framed me. Asks me to turn my face around
Think about putting protective film, this year,
On the windows that bring the sun in.
Grow a thicker skin.

Other Nations, Other Colours

It’s just as well, sometimes,
To see no trace of the storm.
To crunch through fallen leaves
With joy. Not to note the forlorn
Branches, that say nothing of thieves,
Or the berries that cling. In foreign climes,
It’s best not to notice, sometimes.

Such clouds that haunt the blues
Are best seen in sunny skies.
Across the path, just feet away,
Another berry tree lies.
Standing, still, you can hear it say
‘Leaves, or berries, you have to choose.
Thus much to win, thus much to lose.’