Both land on my skin and
Sear this outer layer of mine.
The spark smoulders for a second and
I can smell my flesh burn
Before I feel the prick of pain.
Blood drowns the spark as
I carelessly wipe it away.
A snowflake settles on my skin
And the little bit of soot and blood smear
Across the soft hollow of my hand.
I watch the melted flake run black and red,
A tear dripping from the tiny wound.
Another snowflake, I watch it glitter,
Settled in stillness before it moves again
And gently turns, transforms to water,
A clear drop now, then another.
I’ll pick the scab off my hand, I know,
And have a little scar of pink and tender skin,
More fragile and exposed than the rest of me.
When my hot balm is pressed into the soft snow
It will cool it, strengthen it, and form another
Layer of protection, one grown from ice and fire.
©jsmorgane Nov 2017
There is this house – have you not heard of it?
It’s far enough to call it country house
Yet close enough to get to everywhere,
Don’t miss out on anything, what’s more
Get visited by everyone who’s anyone.
Big landscaped garden and some 20 acres –
Came with the house and all, you know.
A spot of gardening but hours later
Pottering about has turned into hard work.
So organise a gardener, and who was it
You called to resurface the old tennis court?
The builders in and out, the swimming pool –
The cost of heating it, I swear
I won’t have that again.
Candles in the garden, the pavilion lit,
The drawing room for cocktails and
A nanny for the kids, so one can keep fit
And socialise, that glass of wine to speed the time –
So busy on the phone and dropping a line
Only to the closest friends of mine.
Now quickly for some exercise
To burn off the booze,
Just that little drink to take off the edge
Of being owned by this house,
This life of empty busyness,
That buzz that drowns out the silence
Where once I dreamt…
But that’s all gone and I have moved,
Left the house and left that life,
Left all but the silence which followed me
And know it owns me still.
© jsmorgane (July 2014)