Lyrics
MAY FLIES
I’ve dwelt below for long enough, I feel
And dodged the greedy mouths of trout and eel.
Two years I’ve gorged and grown, through silt and stone.
Once small, now feared by many. I am known.
My mouth has grip and guile and speed, I’m told,
For catching fat and witless tadpoles, cold.
I’d like to revel in my prowess, long,
But now this urge to rise is far too strong.
I pierce this see-through skin of sky at last,
I join the outer realm. I shed my past.
An unfamiliar hunger clamours now
And yet I have no mouth to feed, so how?
My new beating wings percuss the answer.
Fly, fly up and find your perfect dancer.
The Woman in Blue
She sits in gloom. The light switch seems too far.
Now the dark mirror mocks her downcast eyes.
The grey hum of traffic murmurs insults
And curtains, badly drawn, form arrowslits
Through which the fading daylight glows blue, as
Her phone, face down, rattles on the table.
Another ‘Are you OK?’ text comes in.
An hour or two had glacially passed
Since the last one. Their frequency waning.
Stark annoyance rises through her numbness,
So galvanised she suddenly sits up
A bright blinking meme shows that someone cares.
This is something she already knew, but
When you’re down, you’re down. Carers aren’t for you.
Beastly Feelings
Fear coils and twitches in my chest again.
A fish in a jar, eels in a bucket.
Panic circles beyond the halo of fire.
Unblinking eyes of fox, with glint of fang.
Dread mutters behind the shadow of door.
A monkey’s hand, or man’s, or bird’s; a claw.
Oily guilt slinks and skulks and sidles in.
Hyenas laugh and lift their bloody chins.
Griefs, veiled in greys and blacks, reproach the light.
The hunting heron haunts the pool at night.
Madness chatters high in nervous branches.
A million starlings rise as one great beast.
Then courage fights this multitude of foe,
As the wren pursues the eagles below.
Philomel
Inst. Riff
I’m lying on my back watching the ceiling crack
I’m three days clean and I feel like turning back
My hands tremble as I reach for a friend
Who’s lying on the table in a bag loyal to the end
Philomel what do you bring?
Why do I feel so close to Hell unless you sing?
Philomel the sound is sweet
But without your siren song I’m incomplete
Inst. Riff
Scars they come and go but I don’t feel them
The friends that filter through can try to heal them
The clouds around my head are of my own making
They go to hide the obvious, the aching
Philomel what do you bring?
Why do I feel so close to Hell unless you sing?
Philomel your sound is sweet
But without your siren song I’m incomplete
Inst. Riff
When morning comes the silence starts to roar
So I pick a crumpled skin up off the floor
The world outside seems harsh and cold and bright
And I’m too far from the numbness of the night
Philomel what do you bring
Why do I feel so close to Hell each time you sing?
Philomel your sound is sweet
And without your siren song I’m incomplete
And without your siren song I’m incomplete
The Night Garden
She would sit there, through summer evening’s shade,
Watching shadows lengthen and colours fade.
A smile, light as a bee, would often play
Across the flowers of her lips, unbid,
As memories of another lift their lid.
She clasps her own hand, as if it was his.
Seldom, sadness finds its way there too
And when it does, so shifts the night time hue
From fading gold, to darkest satin blue.
Now the breeze that lifted jasmine’s colder,
The finest hairs upon her arm, stand up
Like soldiers. She shivers, draws her shawl.
Yes, I’ll be in in a minute, she calls.
A minute more to slow her pounding heart.
