MoP, Day 31

underneath her feet
she can feel the bass
like the pulse of something slumbering
deep within the centre of the Earth

there are flowers in her hair
jewelry on her toes and ankles
she feels wild and fictionalised
in her long skirt and flyaway smile

surrounded by warm, shifting bodies
the people she loves best in the world
who move to the music together
closing their eyes in private elation

MoP, Day 29

the leaves rustle treacherously
he slides lower and deeper into the ground
he freezes; only his eyelashes
quiver with the breeze.

through the branches he can see him
and his fingers reach
feather light
for the dagger at his belt

a bark of laughter from the blade’s intended
a bird takes flight, noisy and abrupt
and our heroic assassin flattens himself
against the forest floor
and prays for deliverance

MoP, Day 28

‘Have you any other objection,’ said Elizabeth,

‘than your belief of my indifference?’
and two centuries of a million readers
breathe out a sigh of relief and yell for joy
when the original rom-com duo 
are wed at last.
Jane Austen, the master of all literary
sexual tension and satirical wit
smiles wryly to herself,
puts her head down, and keeps writing.
Happy birthday P + P

MoP, Day 26

I have a collection
of ornamental fans
they sit across the top
of my bedroom window

beautiful colours and patterns
rigid structure unfurling
majestic canvases of moments
that stretch into scenes

some were cheap,
inexpensive knock-offs
from street vendors in
Japan and Italy

despite their plastic frames
their reproduced landscapes
they are evocative reminders
of exotic experiences

others came from my grandmother’s house
packed away for years
finally produced with glee
– look, Mum. Vintage.

I close my eyes and try to picture it
elegant dresses and long cigarettes
opera capes and glamorous parties
meeting eyes across the top of a coquettish fan

MoP, Day 25

O monograph
your tactile beauty;
embossed script
on a hard, regal cover

mixes with your provocative scent
ink, paper
the faintest trace of musty mould

a playground in your brittle pages
brought to life by blots of letters
spewed out and arranged
by mad magic in an author’s head

if i hold you to my ear
i hear the echoes of a thousand readers before me
their tears and laughter preserved
encased forever in borrowed words