Erica,
genus of heather,
soaks sun in bookshop’s alcoves.
She grows patient smiles
between grey rocky lanes of bricks,
They stare back blankly
puzzled,
in the loneliest of cities.
Lips tight in thin lines of mortar.
Before settling into a plant,
she was a doctor
who got sick.
Cutting words to grasp their sounds
she broke a deep silence
and swore to never hurt a page again.
She now lays her calyx
and guts softly in between lines
to feel the tremors of stories.
Carefully keeping her ink and fingers
sheathed in her pockets
London’s soil eats too much green notes
to sustain the music of the most undemanding of plants.
So, she keeps her roots in the Basque country
wrapped with dreams of Sorginas,
which one day,
will raise books orphaned from silence
Unsheathed,
her fingers and ink
will stir pages, spines and fingers
in the space between ribs
and the socket of our eyes
genus of heather,
soaks sun in bookshop’s alcoves.
She grows patient smiles
between grey rocky lanes of bricks,
They stare back blankly
puzzled,
in the loneliest of cities.
Lips tight in thin lines of mortar.
Before settling into a plant,
she was a doctor
who got sick.
Cutting words to grasp their sounds
she broke a deep silence
and swore to never hurt a page again.
She now lays her calyx
and guts softly in between lines
to feel the tremors of stories.
Carefully keeping her ink and fingers
sheathed in her pockets
London’s soil eats too much green notes
to sustain the music of the most undemanding of plants.
So, she keeps her roots in the Basque country
wrapped with dreams of Sorginas,
which one day,
will raise books orphaned from silence
Unsheathed,
her fingers and ink
will stir pages, spines and fingers
in the space between ribs
and the socket of our eyes