I will not write a lullaby

to soothe unsettled
half-finished conversations
we almost had

You are surrounded by freesias
and a home not of your own making

I am surrounded by light and sound

immersed in the only things, which offer
purchase on uncertain ground.

Yes, I know fragility
it follows me close
always stepping in time
to my tread
scraping the skin from my heels.

I will not give the sonnet release

For that moment
is time
stolen
kept inside a stained-timber cupboard
and bereft
mourning to be the song
I have not yet sung

God and I,
we argue constantly

He will not give me a sign

And I will not become his Angel
on earth
hoisting the flag over a lack-lustre humanity
too jaded
by faded banners

You will laugh
at me
for you always have
with that throaty chuckle
your eyes filled with
seven blonde-haired girls
dancing to the sun
falling down one by one
to smile at a sky
dotted by myriad interpretations.

I only want to hear you say

Yes f*ck it, it is important

But you will not
because you are not so sure
anymore

Your tread is faltering on the
church steps
the crumbling banister
gritty beneath your seeking fingers.

God and I,
we argue all the time.

He speaks
through the hubbub
of my life
telling me
I will leave something for history


But not if I don’t write it.

The impasse
broken in a small stream
of invective
leaking through the fissures

seeking light