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Personal Note:

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Poem

There must be something
to hang onto amid this turmoil,
a small, flickering light at the end
of the dark to guide the way 
or even a gentle nudge by some 
caring angel to help right
a straying foot balanced 
on a ledge. 

But put your hand out 
and there is only air. 
That light ahead is the 8.30
barrelling through the underground
towards you. And the nudge
you feel is from the person
next to you in the carriage
as you tip half asleep 
into the sanctity 
of his private space.

That is not to say
there is nothing there,
but if there is, it is to be found
in ordinary things, the human,
the frail and the chaos 
that sometimes careers 
through each anxious life. 
It must encompass 
all that is unfair, the hurt 
and the healing,
to speak in the sounds
and the silence 
that is everywhere,
to curl around 
a frightened soul 
without letting you know
that it's there.

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