Mistletoe

Let's go for a drink, you said
Dangling our whole relationship 
In a five word thread above
The pub door
More than you'd said in days.
I always hoped, 
Always, 
Saw mistletoe when you smiled -
White berries for red warnings
And every mistake
That flowered too late
In my mind.
Where was I then? The girl who holds the World in her words,
Suspended my time waiting for yours - 
I wish I'd poured that drink over your head.

LJ Ireton
 

Rain time

The raindrops are ticks of their own clock
Time drips by when you're watching
And the seconds make no sense
Which is why
Storms can be comforting
A lull of irregular beats
When you stop
Marching.

LJ Ireton

Stained glass

There are those who have waited
Ugly long years to become a butterfly 
Too afraid to lift a wing at first - 
But learning their arms now
Flare with flags like a herald's trumpet,
Cannot help but flash every colour
In defiance against plain glass
Staining it with the blue-green joy
Of becoming, 
The red of being, 
Sealing the waiting cracks with amber
A benevolent balm,
A hint.

And there are those who don't like it.
They do not understand lightness
In a heavy world, surrounded by stones.
You say, 'neither did I, I carved waves and eyes marking time before my flight'.
But you are fanciful, they say.

And so you fold your wings,
Become a furious line
Of amber gold
Remembering
Every single time you weren't yourself
And this time you fly
With resistance 
And all the more
Reason. 

LJ Ireton 

Storm

Fierce, little heart take courage

Let your feelings flow

In a stolid place

Your tears are a brewing storm

A distilling of the truth that is yours

Rising to the surface 

Listen to it 

And water the dry, dry earth.

LJ Ireton 

Clear Skies

The full moon has come,

But clouds float over her face - 

Allowing us only flashes of

Neon pearl light.

When we try to show our true selves,

Jealous shadows will crawl.

The moon isn't daunted by eclipsing wisps,

As dark as they are.

How do I find that self-assured gleam

Of the moon coming from my own skin?

Her immortal energy I lack -

How does she not tire of the tendrils

Crossing her vision?

Maybe what covers her serves her still -  

In the art of revealing more

Than clear skies ever could.

LJ Ireton