function non-function

the broken vase no longer holds flowers
but
the shape of its shards in the sand is pleasing

the vase was blue and held yellow spring flowers
the cat that smashed it tar black
water drains soon into dryness

I took the larger pieces
– the dust I blew into corners –
and painted bare pottery gold

laid in the garden its function has shifted
now pure adornment (if purity we know)
stop
reflect
still its being enchants me

Then Deep met my brother

My brother was my brother. There, always there when I needed him and when he needed me. Years later I paid him the greatest compliment I thought when I called him my friend.

I met Deep through friends of friends of friends. Three degrees of separation or of closeness. Long time no see a lot of times but still close whenever. I called him brother from another mother and he did the same.

Then Deep met my brother. They were more than close, they were tight. Still are. Love them both.

Michael, Glasgow

He was sobbing. I stopped. It was minus five degrees. 

His ma had just died. She was a great wee woman who hated that her son was a junkie. It was minus five degrees. 

He sat crosslegged on the filthy thin sleeping bag on the pavement. Someone had paid for him to stay in a B&B for two nights but then the money ran out and he had to leave. He sobbed. It was minus five degrees. 

He could have a hostel bed in three nights’ time but now he was on the streets and scared to death. His ma had just died. It was minus five degrees.

She loved him but she just couldn’t cope. I held him tight as we hugged. He sobbed. It was minus five degrees.