'Ribbons', by Fiona Boyd
as we move through the air
we weave in and out of each other
that were dropped
to float to the dead, dying ground.
carried and shaped by the wind
i will not move for you, unless i have to
unless this invisibility forces me to
the ground's approaching
faster, faster now
when suddenly i realise
it was my hand that rested on the windowsill
it was my hand that let us go,
that waves at us as we fall,
the shadow of my smile leering down at us.
' Deerpark and the Great Snow', by Fiona Boyd
An alleyway of trees.
A weight of snow covers everything.
I sit surrounded by white
Apart from you and your rushing colours
Fading now in the dimmer light.
You move your mouth to tell me things
And I listen
But nothing comes in.
All your words are like snowflakes
Pushed by the slightest puff of wind.
The world is pushing your words away,
And with the wild wind
I can’t find any tonight.