Silence never sounds like it’s supposed to.
Silence is an echo chamber
of words unspoken,
and anxieties welling up to the surface.
Bubbling, bursting through the millpond of the mind.
Silence is an empty dancefloor
once the music has been turned off
and everyone has left
You’re left with the ringing in your ears, and a scratching in your throat
from screaming to be heard over that
Silence is an empty railway tunnel.
Gaping and anticipating
the next train of thought, coming along
bulldozing it’s way through the temporary vacancy between your ears.
Silence is a forest,
full of moss-covered rocks just waiting to be overturned.
Patches of fog hang despondently between the listless branches
Don’t peer too close, you might scare yourself
with the weight of all the things you do not know
that lie in the gloaming.
Silence is the gap between the thunderclaps.
That is all.
The rain it still pours.
And the echo of the last distance rumble
tumbles around your hollow head.
Silence is the torchlight of the interrogation.
Why weren’t you good enough?
When did it all go wrong?
Why are you like this?
Why can’t you just move on?
it never stops.
The final few rays of a dwindling winter sun
The crest of a wave before it rushes up to meet the sand
The embers of a dying bonfire
And an outstretched hand.
A tree clinging onto the last few leaves of autumn
Breath catching in your throat
A question mark lingering in the conversation
Lying back in the Mediterranean sea, drifting and afloat.
The pips of voicemail as a phone call goes ignored
The red wine stains on the rim of your glass
Three dots, typing
A reply that isn’t coming back.
Turned down pages of a book of old poetry
The first few drops of rain before a storm
The hovering second hand of a clock as it just passes midnight
A half drunk cup of coffee, gone luke-warm.
An imperfect cadence
And a chance not taken
The imperceptible sound
Of another heart breaking.
Trees miss their blossoms in the winter.
It gets dark. It gets cold. The nights are inconceivably long. The sunlight barely shines through the overcast greys.
And weeds grow.
They start growing where there used to be daisies and daffodils.
The weeds can tough it out.
The daisies can’t.
They wilt at the first frost.
But weeds can bear flowers too. Unexpected and hardy.
A flourish of colour amidst the gloom.
Weeds accompany the trees through their harsh winter.
and offer them their own flowers as compensation.
It’ll never be quite as brilliant as a spring in full bloom,
but it’s something to cling on to.
The winter will drag on forever.
But the trees are patient.
Their blossoms will return.
When the moon and the sun
decide it’s so.
we once walked the same path.
you and i.
for four years, almost.
the same well worn trail.
there were small flowers growing out of our footprints.
and moss slowly growing on fallen branches.
and ferns reaching for light in the dark of the undergrowth.
we used to hold hands as we walked.
i don’t think i even realised our paths had diverged until i was clinging onto your hand by my out-stretched arm and my fingertips.
and you weren’t reaching for mine anymore.
i looked up, and could barely see you through the thicket that had enveloped the gulf now between us.
i didn’t see the warning signs.
i didn’t see the cracks beneath our feet.
i didn’t notice you veering off on your own course to avoid a fallen tree.
“two roads diverged in a wood”
it is not our path anymore.
it is not our story anymore.
and it’s mine.
two separate paths winding their own course through the forests.
but for four years it was ours.
and it was magic,
because the path we walked together was golden.
sweep me off my feet and take me where I need to be
because I no longer know.
pour down on me in a deluge, a flood
wash away my grief,
let my tears mix with your raindrops on my cheeks
so neither of us can tell the difference
between heartbreak, and nature.
light a small spark in my soul again,
a smoldering ember among the ashes of what I used to be,
to give me a passion
where have you gone?
I used to feel you beneath my feet,
but now I’m sure I’m falling.
Ground, come up to meet me and catch me.
After all, it’s not the fall itself that kills you in the end, is it?
I recently spent 5 days in the Lake District, hiking with an old friend. Here are a few things I learnt:
- Sometimes it’s all you can do to put your head down and focus on the next step in front of you. And that is enough.
- Sometimes the wind blows so horrendously that you have no option but to stop, crouch down, and protect yourself. Because pushing yourself to walk on would be foolish and dangerous. You just need to wait for the winds to stop. And they will, eventually.
- Beautiful flowers can always be found growing out from between the cracks in a seemingly barren cliff face.
- The ground underneath your feet might be tough, but you should stop every once in a while, look up, see how far you’ve come, and take in the views.
- Even thunderous rivers have small pools of calm water within them, if you look hard enough.
- Waterfalls are most magnificent after torrential rain. Beautiful things can be born from a deluge.
- All journeys can be made easier with the company of old friends.
I take comfort in the clouds
they can be thunderous and torrential, fuming, screaming through the trees
bursts of bright blue, the wind drops,
the skies paint watercolours with the remnants of the tempest
i’ve felt like those skies today
the ones outside my window
rain followed by birdsong
thunder by calm
gales by whispering leaves
a dear friend once reminded me
there is always blue above the clouds
no matter how grey
it must end
there must be clear skies somewhere
if not just now
but i like storms
i think it’s in my nature
i like to feel the sky darken
hear the pressure drop and the air shift
to witness nature loosen its reins
the skies cry
blue skies may be lovely
but storms make beautiful sunsets