We are the children of the storm
hung out to dry on the washing line
it’s all the fashion all the rage
to be outraged
a surge of hate
to counter our ‘revolution’
because we’re freaks
not ready for the role of human
sunday
Breath
The earth sighs its breeze
Like it’s following
The deflation of my lungs
And if you listen carefully
you can hear the leaves
Scrape across pavements
Tasting their crunch
on the tip of my tongue
I reach out to the world
My stone face chiselled by salt water
We sigh again
Like the rising and waning of a wave
Turning still
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