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Thames River

In this town women walk at night—

Alone. The river glows with Van Gogh’s black blue hues

Twinkling on ripples of a star kissed sky

I cannot imagine locking myself away

From the night air that feels like freedom must taste

In the mouths of men. I cannot

Imagine closing my eyes to the midnight bells

That mark the deepest hour of night

A new day, draped in night’s cape

Wrap my bare shoulders, not with angry hands

Or tongues that lash foul thoughts to my skin

But wrap them in the black veil you mistook as your own

And I will claim the night with my high-heeled monument

Erected by monthly blood-spilled miscarriages

Of justice. In this town women walk at night—

Alone.

By |

One thing lockdown has given me is the time to explore my local neighbourhood. This lovely trail is my latest discovery. Walking beneath the green canopy feels ten degrees cooler than on pavement— a perk for hot summer days. Who knew there was an enchanted forest just off Finchley Road?

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London’s lockdown seems to have ended. The streets are crowded with people again, as though the threat of death no longer looms. Is it the fair Friday weather that lulls them into a false sense of security? Or is it the human condition to forget, doomed to repeat our painful histories, that pulls them out of their homes in too large crowds? Passing them on the pavement feels like playing Russian roulette, an unnecessary game with a consequence that outweighs the prize. There are too many people willing to play. Too many bullets in the gun. I’m staying inside again. I can always walk in my dreams.

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Blue sky, green pastures
A slice of yellow light
Cuts through the cold winds
Warms my goose flesh skin
Until the light fades away
Alone in quiet shadow
Except for Poe’s lonely raven
High in a black clawed tree
Neck stretched toward me
As I pass beneath
One eye cocked downward
Watching, watching
Waiting for the end of night
To call the lost ones home