I am the clash and collide of the stars
because I create worlds.

I am the awareness of the trees
because I hear the wind.

The living room remembers Gran dancing to Count Bessie.
The kitchen can still hear my aunts fighting on Christmas Day.
The hall is worried about the loose banister.

My love is like a well-read book
which makes me smile each time I look.
It shouts and whispers, roars and sings
it grounds me and it gives me wings.

Furrows unfurl,
Carved by the plough – Curl, fold, fall back:
The skin peels away.

A poem is not an Ant
but it can be quite short.
A poem is not a Banana
but there may be something under its skin.
A poem is not a Coat