2020, Musings, Writing

Where the Sparkles Lie

Scattered shards line the road, sparkling under motionless headlights – once a window – now squeezed and torn from it’s frame. Cars screech to a halt around it, their drivers stopping to see now.

Car doors open and murmurs and whispers rise as a crowd gathers round, all eyes centred on the road where the sparkles lie.

And there are gasps, hands clasping to mouths as the scene becomes clear, eyes squeezing tight, heads turning away and tears running down cheeks. For some it’s too much. They stumble away from the crowd to throw up and someone else follows and says, ‘Are you ok?’ and rubs them on the back.

In the distance now the sirens are growing nearer, the crowd still stands and stares and struggles to understand.

And it is almost silent. All these people, all the faces, all these voices, but nobody can speak. Nobody can say a thing now. Their eyes just gaze on the spot where the crimson expands, away from him, to where the sparkles lie.

Originally published on Cowbird, 19th November 2012

2020, Musings, Writing

Still. The Floor.

The floor.

In stillness. In darkness. In deep breathes.

Inside, within my own closed eyes, behind what can be seen.

I focus on withdrawing, on sliding slowly inwards.

I see nothing but black, nothing but the inside of my eyelids.

Yet I am clear of vision, I am clear of feeling.

I am clear of thought, of where I do not need to go.

My fingers trace the floor, the back of my hand searching for what is missing.

I sink.

Curl my fingers in slowly, feeling for a grip, for a touch, a brush of another, warm skin, the safety of being held, and joined.

My fingertips touch my palm. There is nothing to hold onto.

Cold floor. Holds me as a I lie here.

Reading my thoughts behind closed eyes. Floating in the space between.

Knowing sometimes hurts the most.

Missing always feels the worst.

Still. The floor.

Written on 19th March 2020 @ Home, On The Bedroom Floor, Cardiff

2020, Musings, Writing

First and Second

You can stare in the mirror and see many things reflected back at you.

The primary.

The face. The body. The human form. The visible and the tangible. The obvious. The surface.

The unknown is harder to see.

Behind the bloodshot eyes. Behind the tears. Deep in the recesses the stories unfold.

These are the parts we cannot see easily.

These are the secondary, but also the vital.

We have the ability to shape the primary with ease. The secondary is a challenge.

It is primal, instinctive and deeply rooted through our lives and experience. It cannot easily be rearranged.

You can stare into it and read it and the story will be different each time. The understanding and perception will change in moments, with time, with feeling.

We must try to understand the secondary, to define it the best we can. And in this way we can shape ourselves differently.

We can be lighter.

We can be warmer.

We can be softer, yet tougher.

We can be we. We can be us. We can be I.


Written on 23rd February 2020 @ Waterloo Tea, Lakeside, Cardiff

2020, Musings, Writing

In Her Dream

In her dream there is a lake. There is a spot between the trees that surround it where a single bench sits with a clear view of the water.

It’s here that she finds her peace.

It’s never summer in the dreams, always Autumn or a mild Winter’s day. The sky is a piercing blue with clouds drifting through. The sun low and shimmering behind them. The lake ripples from the slow and steady breeze.

She feels it on her cheeks, breathes deeply and embraces it. Pulls the air into her lungs, closes her eyes and lets the life ripple through her body.

There is silence, a pause in time that feels like it could last forever. A ray of sun escape from the clouds and catches her cheek. She tilts her head to the sky, eyes still sealed to the world.

All is quiet.

All is calm.

In her dream.

And she wishes the world could be like this.

She wishes she would never wake up.

Written on 29th December 2019 @ Roath Park Lake, Cardiff

2018, Musings, Writing


Waiting. Lots of waiting.

Gate open. Get up and go.

Check the boards. Stare.

Rumble of wheels. Everyone pulling them along.

Chatter. It’s all noise.

Books being read. Crosswords. Sudoku.

Coffees and pints. Bottles.

Crisps and sandwiches. Overpriced snacks.

Waiting for the gate.

Last call for Newcastle. Gate 25.

Surprisingly calm. Baby wails. Someone laughs.

I wonder if they’re going home? Or are they going away?

Waiting for the gate.

Some alone. Some together. Friends and families.

Girl with the mermaid hair. She plays and eat it. Twists it.

Facetime. Hydrate.

Radio beeps. Are they searching for someone?

Bins emptied. Start again.

Waiting for the gate.

Sudoku still not solved.

He’s got a pillow on his head.

Huddle round. It won’t go any quicker.

Final call for Berlin. Gate 12.

Lads. Going for a smoke.

Standing. Stretching. Between the chairs. Airpot yoga?


Passenger call. Sudden rush.

Final call for Belfast. Gate 27.

Waiting for the gate.

I’m still here.

Written on 31st December 2017 @ Bristol Airport