His plate was empty again but he did not remember eating anything. He was not hungry though so he must have eaten. Perhaps he had fallen asleep afterwards. He rubbed his eyes. His plate was empty again but he did not remember eating anything.
Waves of haar rolled in on the witching wind. Evening birdsong died away. For the first time ever he dared take her hand and she held his tighter than he had ever hoped. In silence they stood and walked away, glad of the quiet mist. Tomorrow the sun would shine.
The beach stones are thousand-year smooth, grey light grey when the clouds clear the moon, black as the night when the misting returns. The sky-black sea crashes foam white at its border. If there are voices, they are distant, both in place and time.
the only person on the riverbank walking away from town
the only person with no dog or a rugby scarf
he holds his shopping bag tight and swinging slightly
See? I have a right to exist. I have every right to be here.
it has rained and rained on the hills upstream
the river flows deep, the colour of builder’s tea
beyond the last fields the sea waits
sun arrows down from cloudless skies
winter wind bringing ice to skin
in the distance the hill burns
and time and time and time
will catch us in its oily grasp
and hold us there unmoving
as people places memories all fade away
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.
in the darkness snow falls, covers snowdrops
green heart quivers
daylight cracks unclouded sky
iced snow shields the living
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.