Author: Charlie Alford

Running to the last chapter
her faith was diminished
craving the remarkable
she held out her book.
Opposite end of the stage
the old lady took insults
striking her walking stick on the cold floor
knowingly mouthed, one day you will be me
the winches and pulleys started to fault 
her future breathing, for all to see.

Postcards
Wish you were here
this faded vintage high street
echoes ancestral voices
where grandparents used to meet
and our story found her feet.

Words etched in practised handwriting
a message from a million miles away
we haven't heard from you in a long while
and wonder if you got caught in the fray.

Postcards
Wish you were here
this faded vintage high street
echoes ancestral voices
where grandparents used to meet
and our story found her feet.

Are you with your travelling soldier?
Are the boys enjoying the continent?
Your empty chair has gathered the cats fur
and the clock has dragged itself to Advent.

Postcards
Wish you were here
Sorry it's been so long,
I found your last message in my coat.

Giant steps down the hallway to coffee
the warm glow of morning sun is dancing
across the sage and green hallway runner
and there you are, a dark mark on my dream.
Waiting in the moment your legs flicker
still and calm like a west wind mahjong tile
you play dead but your body betrays you
dark as the night, the day exposes you.
Before, I found the day enchanting
Before, I felt like more of who I am
Before, I was ready to face the trials
Before, I was singing and dancing.
I thought my little house was protected
my wild garden set back from the doors
I thought only my shoes could cross over
Until I saw you scurry across my floor.
Why couldn't you stay in your oasis?
Australian Autumn is warm and humid
There are flowers, and veges, and grass
You would have been less dead in those spaces.
I am displeased with your boldness
I am unimpressed by your fearlessness
You have filled me with incredible anguish
As I stand here studying your rudeness.
Dear Mr Cricket, I hope you find heaven
maybe in your next life, you won't be trespassing.

In a little flat in a little town
my younger self sat down for a cuppa
three generations around a table
silence breaks as the chairs meet each other.
After a while you leaned in towards me
your west end accent whispered carefully
"I'm ever so sorry, what is your name?"
Your eyes weary, studying me softly.
I still remember the vanilla sponge
the way the cup and saucer were set out
the spoon paused, as you saw my grandmother
Guessing correctly, but I saw the doubt.
We're twenty five years down this long hard road
your namesake 'remembers what's important'
sea blue eyes and west end accents mirror
as I wait for the day he asks my name.

puzzled, even dismayed

children of the haunted house

bound by the framework

of darkest London.

cobwebs swept away

a domino of narratives

unraveled the plot

of a haunting London.

Esthers love story

her childrens mystery.