Believe It.

I feel so high,
up
above
everything.

Kebabs at midnight
a crescent moon looks on
through the window
we're flying.

The leaves of the fig tree
flap in the breeze
and an olive tree sways
dizzy
must be the altitude.

This evening
all three
we've been
bigger than we could have imagined
blown up
a celluloid illusion

but it's all real
or soon will be.

Green tea
musk
that sweet candy scent
I'm covered in it.

We're flying
all three
above the fig tree,
the olive tree
the crescent moon at our side.

It's all real.

You better believe it.

The Old Tree

They've cut down the tree

that used to be out the front of the house.

I know, because I've been on google maps

looking at street view

anticipating arriving

descending down the hill on the cobblestoned footpath

past the matching mirror imaged homes that line the street.

It used to blow in the wind

that tree

on stormy nights

unsteady swaying

alive

and almost ominously human

peeking in the top floor windows

whispering little known secrets.

I can smell and taste

my childhood's stolen summers

made grey by London's blanket of winter cloud

I can feel someone else's skin

suffocatingly wrapping around me

stretching uncomfortably

itching

I've shed it since

but looking square on to this street view

perspective distorted

breath contorted

I feel her still.

No doubt I'll see her reflection

in the top floor window

lacking 10 years of frown lines

naively not seeing,

feeling

too much.

I'll probably even see that old tree,

even though they cut it down.

These things have a way of staying with us.

My Kind Of Magic

It seems a kind of magic

though there's a trick to it, I'm sure

and when I discover it

I'll see right through it

secret no more.

A code to decipher

a language to translate

a strange game I eagerly anticipate

I won't play by the rules

I probably should, but it feels too late

I've forfeited before I've begun

a round that can't be won.

Multiple sixes

you're several steps ahead

I'm stuck with twos and threes

instead.

Obstacles? Of course.

But the climb, the fall

the bruised hips and knees and lips

are the pleasures that aren't denied

by common sense.

And in a puff of smoke

it'll all be gone

illusion

just a trick

of the light

slight of hand

clever distraction.

The crowd gasps.

'Ooohs' and 'Aahhs'.

Step by step

I'll progress

accompanied only by the stars.

Pilgrimage

It's a pilgrimage

of sorts

of religious significance

sure

if you're into that sort of thing

candles and church bells

and proximity to the spire

that points up at that grey eye,

the sky.

I am called

by no voice

but by a longing

passed down by blood

inherited

along with a handful of other things

some more tangible than

tacit.

I have lapsed

sinned

strayed

prodigal,

probably in both senses

correct and mistaken.

What has taken me so long?

This cradle

that holds the living

and the dead

and the past

and the future

and the promises

delivered silently across oceans.

I cannot pray

only sway

to the rhythm of this rocking cradle

in time with synchronised

heart beats

their echo

strong.

It's been too long.