The Voice of the Labyrinth

Rocky Valley labyrinth Tintagel.jpg

The flame is lit
The path is drawn
Cast your shadow on the threshold
Step inside me
Step inside me

Follow your footprints
Ever spiralling inwards
To the centre you seek
Step inside me
Step inside me

You ebb and you flow
Winding in closer
Just when you seem to lose your way
Step inside me
Step inside me

In the quiet of my heart
Where time becomes a circle
Your wisdom finds her voice
Step inside me
Step inside me

Angie & Harry

Door close up

The back door. Blue paint peeling reveals dull grey wood beneath. Concrete steps, two of them, where I sit and peel the spuds on the warmer evenings. I don’t want to go back inside. When I close the door behind me, I feel like a rat trapped in a cage.

If I stand here for long enough, they’ll all come home. The kids will run in, breathless from the school day. They’ll sling their bags onto the kitchen table and charge out onto the lawn. If I stand still enough they may not even see me, they’ll just kick the football around me like a stray goalpost.
Then he’ll arrive, the sharp smell of sweat around him, carrying the mood of his day into the house.

When I was ten years old, I wanted to be a movie star like those smooth haired beauties in the sepia photographs my Uncle Marv had pinned on his garage wall. He used to go in there to secretly smoke his roll-ups while Aunt Sadie was out doing the shopping.

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Rabbit Hole of Desire

His hair coarse and dark, lifting from his scalp in surprised waves. Can I run my fingers through and forget about you? Turn my face to the new, unstuck with glue, hardened by days of neglect and contempt.

A snail hides in its shell, its too soon to tell whether the spell has been broken – cracked into shards that spread for yards. Kneeling on the grass is a girl full of worry.

She gathers her thoughts like wild flowers in a colourful posy. A rabbit hole of desire fills with soil and roots. There are his boots, empty by the door frame, telling of months long gone. A dickie bird at the window sill trills its favourite song that always lasts too long.

Row your boat down the stream, catch a rainbow by its dream, see the waterfall, hear the scream and drop down its tide to the lagoon below.

It waits like an open mouth to catch you between its teeth: rocky crags that jut out like aggressive canines – fangs of a vampire thirsty for blood, rich red like wine.