Commuting

On the day I learnt that mice could sing

I saw a pair of swans flying low over Tinsley viaduct.

Their feathers shone against the grim autumn morning

And I felt that somehow I was driving in the wrong direction.

Why move endlessly with the grey commuter trudge

When somewhere, mice are singing

And swans are on the wing.

Thorn

There is a thorn buried deep in my hand that goes unnoticed

Most of the time

But when least expected

An innocent touch brings out a throbbing pain.

When this retreats

I wonder where this thorn is travelling –

I want to dig it out but it is stubborn and shy,

Preferring to hide just out of reach

But not out of touch.

I have grown allergic to memory

Fearing that the merest brush will produce

A rash of bitter longing

That will crack the careful dressing and reveal

The still festering sore

Beneath.

Time to start...count down from 1,000!