Lisbon

Cobbled chaos,

Vehicle horns,

Dark living rooms. 

Caged budgies 

Looking outwards from within.  

Old ladies that once sprinted 

Over these streets, 

Hobble arthritically through splintered 

Pavements with walking sticks. 

Clothes lines and flies, 

Buzzing and tied 

Between broken biscuits of buildings; 

Craggy faces broken, sleeping, 

Woken, 

By mid-afternoon sun. 

Trams rusted and rattling and squeaking, 

Turning dust 

Over wonky steps 

Only just swept.

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First Impressions

The moon rolls her winter tongue

Along the spine of the tide;

Both are as cold as bare feet

In frozen sand, and

Just as equally beautiful,

For at this time of day,

Before even the sun shows up,

Everything is new; and 

We and the waves and 

The gulls and the shoals,

Are all the first to witness it:

Cottage lamps stir

Like candle lights

Overlooking sheets of sea,

Compressed between clouds

Of gravestone grey, and

A beach, the colour of tea.

property of silver4chris protected by copyright 2022 

Memorial

I was very proud to be asked to write an original piece for the village memorial garden. It's a very serene spot, where people can be with their thoughts, and I'm honoured to be a part of that process. 

                                                                                                     property of silver4chris protected by copyright 2022