She Has no Home

I never felt alone, on these chilly moors,

Looking out, up and down the coast,

and feeling the cold wind in my hair.

It's always like something breathing on my neck,

and I have to tell myself:

It's just the breeze.

The sand beneath is brittle,

as though it can crack,

when really it's just so many little grains

tumbling together in some cosmic overlap.

And I could almost fall down into them,

as though I were being pushed.

I look to the grass around me,

see how every blade dances,

rising up in the low mist,

quivering beneath cloudy skies.

And now I know I'm not alone,

now I realise, this presence: she has no home...

You never see them, not in reality.

The grass and the sand: those things you see,

but she is something like the wind, or injustice,

you just feel it, like an off-feeling,

like you should do something, but what?

And then there's the way she talks...

In a touching display of sensitivity,

the clouds parting, closing,

weaving in and out of the sun;

they and the grass beneath in harmony.

Why are you here, talking to me

and where is your home, why aren't you free?

And then I'm taken away,

to a vision of limitless colour,

swirling in pastel curls

diving into sea shells

surrounded by the sound of crashing waves,

lapping cavernous against my ears.

She appears to me here, eyeless,

in ironic ignorance of this vision.

With her finger on her smiling lips.

"I mean you no harm...

What you sense, all this chaos,

it is just my mind, surrounding you."

In the turbulence I felt cradled,

caressed by the waves of gold and red,

buffeted forward with countless blows

of warmth and love and understanding.

"Please" I screamed,

"What happened to you?"

And then I saw a lighthouse,

one that no longer exists,

with two sihlouettes in the lantern room.

And I could hear them shouting;

her whimpers of love dancing,

with his hard lashes of denial.

Their voices smashed against my ears

like great waves in the storm,

and though I tried to scream,

silent: I choked on the words.

Before my eyes, the man stormed out,

leaving her looking out to the horizon.

Her silhouette against the sky,

hands reaching out, face held forth:

feeling the twists in the moist seaside air,

grinning, sighing, knowing

such colour in the world,

from the salt smell and crisp feel.

Only to decide to stand on the rail,

clothes billowing in the great storm,

and crying out in a way so beautiful

like some tragic bittersweet song,

she fell forwards, tumbling into the cold depths,

and I too fell at the sight.

On my knees, breathing cool air,

streaming tears as I glanced around,

no lighthouse, no colours,

just the cliff and the grass and the sand.

A sigh escaping me, the dirt in my fists,

and my body quivering in the cold of the mist.

Never have I told this story,

only have I felt it in my heart,

and worried I may be called crazy,

I repressed it deeply, right from the start.

Still sometimes I see her,

looking but not looking,

smiling how she always did, like she knows,

and I find it hard, not to believe.

She who saw such colour, she who felt the pulse of the world,

she who wanders the coast, she who has no home...