Our wooden bench is old and splintered
Yours till the end yet assembled by me
Today sitting in your place, I wonder
Side on… did I ever know you?
Facing… do I trust this identity?

Birds sing as clouds shift the sky
Space flows away from all we see
And people who sat on this bench
Spent a lifetime as familiar strangers
Waiting for another day to speak

Never A Chance

“I think you could do well,
If they gave you a chance”
After a silence, she spoke to the page
Full of dreams and creative leaning
Pleased at the praise a childish squirm
Yet her meaning was missed by age
For they never gave that chance
Undrawn, unacted, unsung
Unheard words and dances undone.

I hear her today as her eyes met mine
Our fleeting glance affirmed through time
They got rid of her in only one term
Her insight and care had not complied
Terrified of loss in floods of rare tears
Begging to escape them and fear
But I will never forget how she saw me
On a page of illustrated poetry
What if they had listened to her
What if she had been the one
Who by seeing my soul set it free
Allowing creative truth to run
Chasing a chance under blazing suns.


© 2019 Debbie Freeman

Flour Weevils

Flour Weevils

Flour weevils nestle comfortably
Buried in a soft blanket
Of a powdered quilt
Black beetles bedded
Down with age.
I see you checking
Now I check
Lifting the lid almost
Wishing to relive
That startled moment
As insects roll
In the snowy dust
Memories of dust
I hear you say,
‘Don’t let them out.’
It must be a Yorkshire thing
I have your ways.

Written by Debbie Freeman