A reflection on family photo albums left behind You are the mother of my children in the photos with them where I am not – and which I do not have. They still ours these days long since the great divide of all things that pressed images between leaves. Those books of hours testaments of devotion of our middle ages, fully illustrated by the faith once shared. And I? I am part of ‘ours’ post-reformation spared the assembly of you and they and those testaments. 2019 © Andie Davidson
She doesn’t quite catch my hand
it falls—shatters on the ground.
You never quite know.
Windows down the empty way,
nostalgia with suspicion —
a Trabi sits on the lot, a tiny
sufficient reminder
that trust is fragile, still.
I look down at my hand
the pieces silently explain
why I had danced apart last night
to rock, metal and stones, a
wrong fear of anyone too right.
They pointed at us.
They looked disgusted.
You just didn’t see.
At the fruit blossom fest last year,
—and I recall.
The pieces of my hand reluctantly
rearrange themselves, reoccupy
my glove, find my pocket;
join every love darkened by fear
es tut mir leid.
Yes, and knowing
that this is not how change happens.
2017 © Andie Davidson
it has entered
left and some is still of me
a little can be you
or may dispelstay free
some is morning
is cloudsat night
stirring of wings
of leavesand flight
open as windows
like my heartand mouth
stirring in curtains
from eastthen south
some is yawning
or laughterand delight
a little lies in stillness
or a skylarkat its height
it has flown
touchedan ancient sea
kiss beginnings
kiss my breathkiss me
2017 © Andie Davidson
I shall hold you as an egg
admire the colours of your fragility
for eggs should only be broken
from the inside
Some go to the harbour
for the buoys
or gaze out to sea;
others fly to crested castles
for knights hoping
for a favour, to be won;
we go down to the undercliff
where the spray
catches us, reeling.
Landed, quiet and still
wrapped in you, I feel
your breath on my shoulder;
each exhalation full of
fragments of dreaming;
every inhalation drawing
inspiration for more.
Our limbs become branches
of a single tree,
acquiring leaves;
and stars.
2016 © Andie Davidson