relationships / Unexpected

A friend has offered me her space on the Sussex coast while she and her partner are travelling. A space with a cabin and a caravan, chicken and greenhouses, fruit trees and wood pigeons, a kitchen and WiFi. A space to escape from a hectic summer with a few blows – the shock of Brexit, the discomfort of a back injury, the uncertainties of my relationship that’s now come to a sudden full-stop in mid-air. A space to land, take a deep breath and maybe just take some space… Space feels like a very comforting gift – another one, recently, was the discovery of ‘pantuns’, a Malaysian verse form with a fairly rigid structure that offers safety to my unkempt mind. The two brought together with a pinch of freedom lead to something like this:

wale stone

on the edge of the old dark

watching incense exhaling last wisps of smoke skywards

yesterday the sky disappeared with the sea into a white blur

so it’s possible then

a space between sky and sea


yesterday sky and sea smudged into whiteness

like white noise drowning out sounds

the white space between sky and sea

blurring my memories


white noise drowning out sounds

a swing in a walled garden

the only memory I’m left with for company

alone up on a hill above the road from Eastbourne to Brighton


a swing in a walled garden

where wood pigeons bemoan dreams buried too deep

up on a hill above the valley

cars drifting by on the main road, unknowing


wood pigeons bemoan that space

where day and night blur into a turquoise glow

where we drifted, unknowing

a space filled with the breath of the in-between-creatures


day and night blur into a glow

a space, blue, blurry, timeless

the breath of in-between-creatures cool on my skin

after the day’s heat and comforting before the old dark


a space, white, hazy, horizonless

when did I stop feeling, like a knife gone blunt

the day’s heat, the old dark

when did I cross that threshold


when did I stop feeling my own sadness

buried too deep under grey motionless void

when did I cross that threshold

a rock, round, smooth with a crack like the Meridian line


from grey motionless emptiness

watching the incense exhaling its last wisps of smoke

it crossed the threshold, skywards

so it’s possible, then


The Author

Writer, Photographer, Craftivist, Textile Artist, Creative Facilitator. "Immer noch offen"