I'm all wrong.

I'm all wrong at home,
Out of sorts, out of synch, out of my mind,
Out, out of time, hurry; I must go out
And move and breathe and listen.
I feel the soft air and let my eyes rest on familiar shapes.
Here among the mossy green tree trunks
And russet fallen leaves of the oaks,
My heart is quiet.
The crazy spinning spirals of my mind
Fall into languid loops
Of light and shade
And lap like little waves,
Lap like the little waves
At the water's edge
As I pass the lodges.
The sky is smudged with cloud
But I reach a sunken lane
Lined with sycamore leaves
Lined like a sleeve with yellow satin.
It's brimful with liquid golden light,
Sweet wine to soften and make mellow
The painful sharpness of
My mind's dark corners.
I'm all right here,
I'm all right.

Journey

I'm a tiny pebble in a great river -
In drought, lying still, I grow a furry green slime coat
With ragged tails that trail downstream.
I wait to be moved but feel no more than the gentle stirring of the current.
I sway a little but am not displaced;
I grow older, greener, accruing layers of grime.
I may lie here forever if nothing stirs me.

Flash flood!
Powerful force!
Surging, purging,
Sweeping away the detritus of decay.
And I roll and tumble, collide, rebound,
Hurled against rock and root.
My layers are scoured and scraped;
My surface is smoothed and polished.
Taken by the current, chaos and darkness
Hide my way and my destination from me.
I know neither when nor where I will come to rest;
Or whether there will ever be stillness
Dizzy, confused by constant disorientation,
Fearful of the shapes that loom and recede, loom and recede -
In the dim water as I settle onto a sandy bed.

I have come far but feel no different -
Not in my core, not in my heart of hearts;
Though my skin is smoother
And there is less of me than previously.
I'm a tiny pebble on a beach,
Lying on the sand, waiting
Maybe someone will pick me up:
Appreciate my curving form,
Caress me, cradle me, treasure me.

I wait to be moved but only feel the chilling breeze from the sea.
The waves will take and break and grind me -
Sand I will be;
Scattered grains among the remains
Of history.
.

MISTAKEN IDENTITY

He was a good man.
He tended sheep and followed the shepherd,
One of the flock, chosen by God.
Yet he suffered loss.
God took his wife from him,
And took his children one by one.

He was a good man.
He entered darkness and knew despair.
God saved him with a still small voice,
"I am with thee, stay with me," -
An answered prayer.
God sent him an angel,
Young in years, nineteen, with golden hair,
Fresh faced, fresh faith,
Full of zeal to save and do good,
Compassionate heart for the sad and lonely.

He was a good man.
He welcomed the angel who came to visit,
And saw that she was a gift to him,
He felt surging joy and urges to kiss her,
To hold her and keep her
Safe and precious by his side.

He was a good man -
But he made a mistake.
She was no angel for all that he wished it.
She pitied him, mourned with him.
But the strong embrace and passionate lips,
The overpowering aftershave and suffocating kiss -
This was no welcome for an angel.

She was an angel
But she made a mistake.
She saw God in a man
And ignored his humanity.

STIGMA

Stigma - what stigma?
Just the word "mental" troubles me, that's all.
At school I was a loony because I had problems -
Couldn't cope with the teasing, the nasty names and passed notes.
Couldn't cope with the stares and looks of surprise
When their jibes brought tears to my eyes.
Went to a place called "The Young People's Unit" -
Nice name for a place full of freaks like me.
Painted a horse and had it analysed:
That horse looks calm now like you -
Not like the wild horse you were before.
Couldn't stand being a freak on show -
Professionals peering through one-way glass
As we shared our troubles.
And now - thirty years on...
Stigma, what stigma?
My friend says "You don't have to talk about your illness."
She doesn't want me to talk about my illness.
It makes her uncomfortable and I feel ashamed.
I'm grown up now, shouldn't be this way.
I go to college and try to blend in,
Try to appear so casual, though my heart is pounding.
I'm on a 3rd route course and hope no-one knows
It's for people with mental health difficulties.
Go to the psychologist and nearly die of shock.
The receptionist is someone I know from my kids' school.
It's all right, I know she'll be discreet.
I hope she'll be discreet.
I know how they gossip at the school gates.
Stigma, what stigma?
Perhaps it's all in my mind
But I feel so small...

MOVING LANDSCAPE

The hills came into view,
Drowsing in the morning's
Misty reluctance to awaken.
The chill easterly winds
Flustered the clouds
Until they sprang away,
Grey rags torn from the grey horizon.
The bronze light of a sullen sun
Dimly lit the sky,
Then strengthening,
It fired the edges of the clouds with gold
And set the grim hills with topaz.
As the scenery moved by me,
Showing different facets,
Each scene that met my eyes
Was more wonderful than the last,
Like a kaleidoscope
Revealing ever-changing arrangements
Of colour and shape.
Then the images began to slow their pace;
They darkened and became
A frieze of gas cylinders, mill chimneys,
Rows of terraced house and cobbled streets,
And were finally hidden from view
As the train
Drew into
The station.