π™³πšŠπš πš— 𝚝𝚘 π™Όπš’πšπš—πš’πšπš‘πš | πš™πš˜πšŽπšπš›πš’ πŸŒ“

Dawn brings the peace

Twilight will provide the calm,

and Midnight always remembers.

π™²πš‘πšŠπš—πšπšŽ π™΅πšžπšπšžπš›πšŽ π™·πš’πšœπšπš˜πš›πš’ | πš™πš˜πšŽπšπš›πš’

We are living through history.

One day,

children will flick through textbooks, and

wonder why the world

thought it was acceptable

to isolate people

for the colour of their skin.

We are living through history,

and now is the time to change.

πš‚πšžπš—πš›πš’πšœπšŽ πšƒπš˜ πš‚πšžπš—πš›πš’πšœπšŽ | πš™πš˜πšŽπšπš›πš’ β˜€οΈ

Sunrise brought hope and joy,

Mid-morning came with youth.

Noon reminded we were halfway there,

Afternoon poured the tea.

Evening turned down the lights

Nightfall dragged us through the dark,

waiting and whispering, wishing

Sunrise would come again.

Here begin the long days… (poetry)

Here begin the long days,

where time stands still

For a nation.

Endless tea and snacks

and never quite getting dressed.

Here begin the long days.

When we sacrificed a lot

Here begins the times,

so we don’t sacrifice the many.

I welcome the long days,

I welcome the quiet.

I welcome the long lives

The long days will give us.

Tea | poetry

I could probably write a whole book about tea, and maybe one day I will. It features in every single book I’ve ever written and despite the thousands of cups that have gone cold in my time – the next cuppa is never far from my mind.

We Are Flowers | Stream of Consciousness

A field, full of armoured tanks and soldiers and guns – covered in beautiful, cut and wild flowers.

We march past, and people stop to take photos – turning war into Instagram.

We are flowers – once growing and beautiful but cut for the purpose of display and beauty, so we die. We add chemicals or dyes, we flatten and press them to try and preserve the life we have already taken. But we are flowers – once cut from our stem, we perish.

And as is the way of things. A beauty designed not to last. We are ruined by the spoils of greed and war – wanting more world than our home grown field. But one flower only needs one home to nurture it.

We long for youth and beauty and longevity- but they cannot co-exist. Time will make graves from us all.

Sleep | poetry

You fall asleep,

My hand to your cheek

At first it seems sweet

Then I think of blander motives

Am I interrupting your rest?

Is this just a unwillingness to move?

Then you pull my hand to your chest

Bringing it to rest, part of me on you

Where I should always have been,

And I remember what love feels like again.