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The glassy waters of the canal lie still, expansive, a stretch of indigo, rippleless, reflective. Above the night goes on forever, hangs loosely from each corner of sky, the same dark inky hue as water, as the inside of a poem. No clouds float, no stars, just this canopy dipping to meet the water, merging invisibly, silently, without even a scream of protest as air becomes liquid. Were there no bridge, no pathway, no fields of grass and sleeping ducks, all there would be is sky and water, an eternal world of damp cobalt, a melancholic starless limbo, in which one can neither drown nor fly.

Here is a blank place, a lonely and unlovely place, a desolate mire where we come, ironically, to end this suffering. Here is a gloomy place, to be sure, but to be here is to be alone, solitary, at last, as we begun. Here is your private island where no one else can touch you, where your thoughts are crystals in the air. And look, Here is a cliff, a ledge, a tall building. Here is a drawer full of knives, piles of broken glass, scissors with sharp edges. Here are pills, a gas oven, the door invitingly open. All doors are open Here. Here is an invitation not everybody chooses to accept, but here is the only place we have left to go to,

A pulled back sheet on a double bed, two lips inches apart, breathe, and then... the angry clenched fist, the loaded gun, an unsaid wish. Bang. And those whispers were so promising, too beautiful to believe, leading to that glorious moment, the clandestine kiss, the making of love, the very first punch fired like a gun. Love the gun and shoot the kiss, feel the burn of the jealous fist, breaking into someone’s heart. Kill the love, kiss the gun, clandestine fist. Love enough to take the life, of the one that you adored, by shooting a score, Settling the bed, spattered in red, like strewn rose petals. When the green rots us from in

Odd things come in the night- when you're asleep you miss them, but awake, your eyes ticking like gentle clocks, you're susceptible to their sneaking ways, to their trembling visions, their strange dark thoughts tempting oblivion. Their wet mouths are beckoning, and they lure and pose and strike with their stinking perfumes. I try to turn my face from them, protectively cradling painful yawns in my arms; my helpless, wailing children. They can never be satisfied, even when the dawn snags the sky and rips it open in red.

November frosts the ground in grey, stark twilight glooms the air, fog mists the dawn, leaves rust, decay, the sun recoils, the flowers despair. December brings a sparkle of snow, a biting chill that nips the face, soggy slush, glacial tableau, the trees festooned with frosty lace. January brings the ravaging gales, shakes windowpanes with blust'ry cries, colour seems drained, all blank details leaving vast and empty skies. February's rains soak the ground, the ghost of mist sets in, beneath this dampness earth is drowned, but somewhere deep new life begins. March starts to usher in the warmth, dark clouds thin and disperse, watery sunshi

You are my domino, The one that remains standing When all the others have toppled. You are my dice, Never landing on anything expected, Unpredictable, life changing. You are my royal picture card, My jack with the two faces, Mirror images on the same side. You are my knight, My charging protector, My sleek guardian. You are also my pawn, Underestimated, Gladly sacrificial. , You are my snakes, And also my ladders, Making me both rise and fall. You are the white checker piece Against my black, Advancing towards my darkness.

It hurts with a dull pain, a rusted nail driving slowly, relentlessly and totally remorselessly into my side. I can see terror in your eyes, reflecting my own, a bright sheen out of place in your pale face. We stutter to no avail, flimsy words dragging on the unruly needles of our thoughts. There's something solid and unhealthy in this tiny space between us where the fibres of our clothes mesh together. And still I cling to you, my mouth dry and aching, I can't bear to let go. It hurts to hold you like this, to know that time is counting down. We are never forever.

Leave you in the past, that's what they're telling me, like you're some old relic, some ancient history, a marble edifice to be restored and then covered in sensible tarp. I did wrap you up all those years ago, an expensive and delicate artefact, some key to long before. I boxed you, neatly - no ends were showing, no rumpled rags of paper. Off you went to the attic, to gently wait with the fur coats and old magazines. But you shared a box with my untold memories, with little trinkets I keep but dare not mention. They're restless, these things, and they woke you. Too soon they woke you, but I found I did not care, found myself running ba