Snapshot 3

Fishlake National Forest, just outside Utah, is where we buried it.

Wrapped in a blanket, which we took from the cupboard in the hall, where all the bedding and towels are kept.

When we made the decision, there was no going back. And to paraphrase Macbeth, “If it were done, then ’twere well it were done quickly”. Hesitation during any of what followed would have proved disastrous to our resolve.

We saw a different side of each other that day – you proved far more ruthless in deed and thought than I had seen before, and I like to think you saw a softer side to me.

As the forest closed in around us, the mood in the car darkened along with the shadows that surrounded us. We knew we were approaching the spot we had picked out using Google maps satellite view. Quiet, secluded, and off the seldom travelled road. We didn’t speak. You knew the way, so I was left to sit and look out of the window, watching the dark greens and browns flow by.

The dark, black peat gave way under the blade of the shovel. You sat on an old stump and smoked, your first cigarette for two years, while I dug down. All about us was the noise of the forest – falling branches, rustling creatures, and the deep age old sound of trees growing. The steady thump and scatter of the excavated peat hitting the floor.

“That’s enough”, you said. I looked at the hole I had created and agreed, it was deep enough. Or maybe it would never be deep enough to hide what we had done, and you were just cold and ready to be done with this. I returned to the car to fetch our burden, and lifting it from the back seat I carried it back into the small clearing we had found.
You stood, and gently placed one hand on top of the wrapped bundle. Our eyes locked for a second, and in that heartbeat of time we knew this was a secret that would keep us entwined forever.
I lowered it down into the ground. And while you went back and sat in the car, I filled in the hole.
It filled in quicker than it emptied.



This one came to me just now, while sitting idly in the garden. I’ve not censored or edited it, just published as is. I wonder what you think?

These hidden worlds behind curtained panes,
Where sex and love and passion flames,
In every room a story waits,
Filled with sorrow, tears and hate,
And as I wander down dirty streets,
With tired bones and aching feet,
I close my eyes and see you there,
With sleep entwined about your hair,
Remembering the soft said words,
That sang a tune so seldom heard,
“It’s only life” you said to me,
“That colours all the world you see”,
But in my sadness deep and dark,
I could not take your words to heart,
And so succumbed to misery,
Believing not in you or me.

The Moon Alone Bore Witness

This is a bit of a dark one, but I hope you like it nonetheless.

The leaves were dry and formed a crust,
Each footstep broke the peace.
Her muffled screams from ‘neath my hand
Were drowned in noise at least.
And as we reached the clearing dark,
The moon alone bore witness.

Her eyes betrayed the fear she felt,
True feelings kept beneath.
In supplication begging me
‘pon hand and bended knee.
But as my resolution held,
The moon alone bore witness.

I cast about for prying eyes,
For reason so to cease.
But night was still and we alone
My wanton need increased.
And as my hands took up their deed,
The moon alone bore witness.

The captured soul from in the breast,
Makes not a sound released.
But at the point of life removed
My cry was as a beast.
And as her final light was dimmed,
The moon alone bore witness.

I left the body ‘neath the stars,
Laying now in peace.
Once more my sickness had been quelled
My inner blackness eased.
And throughout all my evils deeds,
The moon alone bore witness.

Les Champs Elysees

The lazy smoke from cigarettes
drifts across the ceiling,
the old man in the flat cap
plays accordion with feeling.
The writers and the artists
mix with workers in the café,
as a woman with a story
strolls along the Champs Elysees.
The taxies with their snarling voices
rage in summers heat,
but the woman with the story
strolls along to her own beat.
This femme fatale with liquid hips
and eyes that spark a flame,
has a tale of treachery
and nights of husbands shame.
As Paris basks in summer sun
a smile plays on her face,
she knows where all the bodies are
so kept in secret place.
The woman with her lover’s story
carries on her way,
past the artists, writers, workers
on the Champs Elysees.


What is that trapped
behind your lips,
that will not spill nor tell me clear
the thoughts you want to share?
Revealing words
you fight against,
and will not let your inner self
be opened up to others and laid bare.

You’re fighting hard
to keep it in,
for fear of causing hurt or pain
or is it truth you’d rather me not hear?
I only ask
in plaintive voice,
the trust I give is so returned
without a thought so hesitant in fear.