On the Crest of a Wave

There is a spot where spirits blend
And friend with fellowship meets friend,
Through fluctuating smiles and tears
Like screaming waves to our deaf ears.

And constant is the ceaseless beat
Of water lapping round our feet;
Then sinking back from whence it came
Once more to rise and fall again.

Each crested with white crowns of glory
They leap ahead before their time,
And seem to tell a different story.
As they crawl back to the brine.

Like the unheard beat of time
It is continuous for who can stop it.
A noisy, surging sea of tears,
A miracle or a dream that rotted.

Then it advances on our years
Where we play with words for there's nothing to say;
It grips the shingles, and claws and tears
As its finger-like rivulets melt away.

In the beginning was the word
But the word had been said before;
So now we assume time is, time was,
But time shall be no more.

Where Rivers Run To

Her face was pressed against the waiting room window, looking for the cloud of steam from the train. She was to meet him at the other end. The journey had been a brief one, and as she watched the country side fly past, recollections of all that happened until now filled her mind.

It had all seemed so simple before, but in reality fact changed their appearance beyond their recognition. Everything has been meticulously planned and organised. Nothing had been overlooked. She looked around her at all the homecoming sights and wondered how long it would be before she would feel the pain of their loss. She thought of what was left behind her to gather dust which seemed to come from nowhere, ceaselessly carpeting any available surface, the dust of her mind clouding the memories it held. She thought of him.

Her parents had never stood in her way before, always given her the freedom to live the life she had chosen. That all changed after she met him. It was strange how protective her family suddenly became, and the hostility they showed only brought them closer together. Now it had come to this. It was the sort of thing that happened in cheap love stories and always seemed to work. Real life people didn’t just elope simply to show the world that they loved each other and could overcome whatever troubles came their way by the power of the bond between them. Such things were not possible and she knew it.

The train pulled into the station. He would be there soon. She moved like a ghost between the crowds, hoping no one she knew would be there – already an unlikely possibility. She felt herself swaying gently as though in a sea of turbulent worries which she knew little or nothing of. Voices rose around her ears. The pressure she was under gradually increased and she felt herself sinking beneath the strain. Once sitting, the haze around her began to clear.

With a great clang on her heart she suddenly realised the enormity of what she had done and the impossibility of it all. It had been decided on impulse. But she now didn’t know if she had the strength to carry it through. She felt him seize her hand.

‘Come’, he said.

All the seas of the world tumbled about her heart. He was drawing her into them; he would drown her. She gripped with both hands at the iron railing by the platform.

‘Come’.

No. It was impossible. Her hand clutched at the railing in frenzy. Amid the seas she sent a cry of anguish.

He called her name.

He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He was shouted at to go on, but still he called to her. She set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition.

Curl Up and Dye

As she rose that morning to yet again tread the same pavement to work there was an air of discontent around her. It was as though she had suddenly realised that this was what her whole life was coming to. There was nothing beyond this, as far as progress was concerned. She could go no further. This was it.

She stepped outside and shivered slightly with the crisp, untouched air. The streets shimmered with dew and the morning sun glinted on satellite dishes peppered across the estate. She did not lead an ideal life, and knew it. So much had once been expected of her that she really once believed she would walk into the world and make it better. Like everyone else, she thought she would make an impression. But had now realised that the world was too small for everyone to be great. Millions of others were in her position. Contented nobodys. Just going through the motions because it was what was expected of them and the thought of something better was quickly banished, the question 'why?' never asked. Until now.

She stepped carefully between last night's fish and chip papers blowing aimlessly in the fume-filled wind. She walked this road every day, devoutly following its path, blinding herself to the life it held. The people here had nothing left to hope for. For them life was over and had become a repetitive act rather than an individual performance. Sometimes things just happened like that and there wasn't much you could do about it. Well, she was going to. She had had enough, seen enough, done enough. She went into the small salon and took her coat off.

'Morning Mrs Jackson. What will it be this time? Just a trim?' She watched the snippets of hair fall to the ground in a pile at her feet. This was where people came when they felt down and out. They really believed they could be someone different by leaving some of their hair on the floor behind them. Or maybe it was just the feeling that this gave them. Confidence.

The hairdryer drowned her thoughts. The phone rang. 'Yes, two o'clock will be fine. See you tomorrow. Thank you Mrs Jones'.

She twisted the rods into the old grey hair. It was strange how different it was to the younger customers', so weary, dead and leaden.

She briefly looked around her. There were a couple of people waiting, other reading magazines under the dryer,  another having her hair washed. While she used synthetic air to dry fake coloured hair.

And always the smell of heat and shampoo. The time wore on, yet seemed to dangle on the minutes long enough to accentuate the weariness of her task.

It was a strange sort of life. Constantly having people come to you to be changed, be made into something different; and even she, having turned over the sign to 'closed' walked home the same person as she had been that morning. Perhaps a little more tired, perhaps a little older, perhaps a little closer to dying; but she would go back the next day and see Mrs Jones at two o'clock as well as the other women in need of a miracle. She couldn't work miracles. She was only a hairdresser, only human.

As she walked home she breathed in deeply so as to get the smell of shampoo out of her lungs. It was as clear cut as that, like black on white.