All the little things that are mine.

The smell of hot cars, slightly sweet.
Convolvulus, pointing at the sun
But once open it is made
of exhausted handkerchiefs

Guess where I’m going.
You can come.

On the way up among the hum
of bees, fences creosoted in spring
give it all back to the air. The first flying ants
tiptoe out in lace. There, under the oak’s
dark leaves it smells like secrets, things

whispered at the sleeping moths which cluster
in the eaves. The light and shade of day
and rowan berries

Untitled

round as the rind of moon that
tries to be seen, but is shouted down.

I follow my red feet up the steep parts.
Imagine this is me, walking towards you
dressed in young camellia leaves,
blue sky trapped in their cupped hearts

The welder calls me to come and see,
flag-draped and silver in the dark, a Robot-Mercury,
Something he made
at the bottom of the hill that runs up to the park.

Untitled

Well, you don’t want to share.
You don’t have to share. Maybe
it’s frightening to be interesting.
I don’t feel fear.

the light and the shade of it

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About chiller

Rachel Coldbreath spent 20 years working internationally as a technical specialist on large data collections for law firms, before becoming disabled. She blogs on a variety of topics from the news and politics to gardening and how very annoying it is, being disabled. Habits include drilling holes about 1mm away from where they ought to be, and embarking with great enthusiasm on tasks for which she is neither physically nor intellectually equipped.
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3 Responses to All the little things that are mine.

  1. Fles says:

    Thank-you for sharing this.

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