Landscape, by Gaia Holmes

You will come wet-fingered
and blur my outlines,
smudge the neat shapes I’ve drawn
into the colours of the sky,
until angles and pencilled edges
become a wash, a mulch, a mess.

Let me draw us safely now.
Stick man, stick woman,
fingerless, faceless and stark
with a six mile gap between us
expressing nothing – toneless and bland
except for our fat magenta hearts.

Swans, by Gaia Holmes

The days
are full of angles.
They strut
around the house
like vicious swans,
pecking
at piles of shoes
and clothes
and tangled thoughts,
hissing
at the disarray.

Smoothness
only comes
in the night
like a swallow
with the burr
and back-draft
of a wing,
with a memory,
with the swoop
of a hip-bone,
with the slow,
soft reel-show
of two cigarettes
thinning the gloom,
curing the darkness
with gold.