Distance does do 
what it’s meant 
it keeps things 
safely at bay 
but in that
space between you 
and them it
or whatever else 
grows wild perspective 
remember to stop 
taking it in
for its flowers 
are very rare 

In the wee
always this time 
when the we
is missed most
the uncanny hours 
after day and 
before the night 
when the guards
change their shifts 
and for just 
the briefest moment 
I’m left vulnerable 
that’s when they 
come from shadows 
the wee ones 

From some craggy 
place a hangnail 
snags on some 
long forgotten moment 
and the memory 
snaps with sting
enough to make 
me pull back 
and look closely 
grabbing a clipper 
I snip it
cleanly off closing
that chapter again 
how many times 
will these ghosts 
happen to haunt 
what must I
do to avoid 
touching its flame 
by now you’d
think I’d know 
that fire burns 

Slice of bread 
bit of cheese
smear of jam 
and a fire
that whispers warmth 
little quiet lights
orbs of white 
dancing with delight 
a darkness beyond 
my frosty window 
disappears into night 
a wintery sight 

Bright white December 
clouds hang heavily 
above the mountains 
like crisp sheets 
drying on line 
not snapping lazily 
dangling and damp
bleached against dark 
like lines carved 
into old trees
telling some tale 
of once loves
now long forgotten 
soon unpinned these
clouds will be 
carried inside and 
folded and stored 
inside the cupboards 
of breaking day