While you were sleeping
the house was breathing
Stretching it’s bones
Exhaling in moans.
The floorboard creaks
as the doorframe speaks
the tree rustles in the dark
witching hour left its mark.
The walls are painted in whispers
as the darkness, omits her
she’s missing from the shadows
and only the house knows.
Holding its breath
behind the ageing frames
until morning yawns
and starts a new game.
There's only one line between birth and death
every chapter is shaped by the road we take
some measure in years, some measure in breaths.
The kitchen becomes a canvas for this chef,
the drama revealed in the things I bake -
there's only one line between birth and death.
I chased old stories and got out of my depth,
imagined myself as lady of the lake,
some measure in years, some measure in breaths.
I find my solace in friends like Seth
in coffee, fried eggs, in small shared breaks -
there's only one line between birth and death.
When courage and bravery feel bereft,
when all that I risk begins to ache,
some measure in years, some measure in breaths.
This little chef still out of her depth,
yet drawn to the road less taken -
there's only one line between birth and death,
some measure in years, some measure in breaths.
It’s 4pm on a grey Autumn day
when the twinkle in my eye starts to say
it’s all them pigeons, I’d bet my pension
I swallow a laugh as I pay attention.
On the screen, behind Churchill, they line
like members of Parliament at Question time.
Gatherin’ round to remember the war,
chests puffed out, cooing at tours.
I listen carefully, drinking my tea
as the voice in my head narrates the TV.
The pigeons, I agree, are patrons of London,
but that doesn’t mean they’re the guilty ones.
Um, what about the coded messages,
bows and circles as they make their pledges
fueds in the vestiges of Westminister -
could there be anything more sinister.
I wrap up my work as I contemplate
how pigeons have shaped my homelands fate
is this payback for Trafalgar Square
those years we scattered and chased from there?
It started with a Charlie, girl
You will not be a fly on the wall
Take those wings to the summer sky
Wrap your dreams around the world.
Little red wellies made Chuggles
Daddy’s lifelong partner in crime
Watching from the country garden
Cycling through Surrey’s autumn hills.
The seasons turned and so did Chum
A dog food brand, a word for friend
My little brother named me once
And either way, I loved the sound.
The land down under gave me Chaz
Where it is too hot for syllables
And cultural expectations
It felt very early-noughties cool.
Graduation christened me Charles
Pulling me back toward the patriarchy
Having to prove my own first name
Those small corrections left their scars.
Today the Teams chat calls me CA
An office joke between colleagues
Who speak in acronyms all day
A little goodbye: see ya, CA.
But what began as sibling teasing
Became the name my people use
The one that stayed, the one that softened
I will always be, Always Chum.
Language fashions the pysche I'm finding
words and music turn my pain into art
every ingredient brings magic
like the texture of batter in cupcakes.
Clothes exhibit my imagination
every necklace and ring has a story
weaving colours and patterns through my style
like acrylic strokes across a canvas.
I know who I am through my ancestry,
my archetype and personality
I know who I am through my studying
it only took me 40 years to get here.
We used to do a pub test
floating a conversation
taking a poll with our beer
the winner was the loudest.
Now I'm in my home office
a polished problem statement
is answered in online forms
and pre-formatted spreadsheets.
I give a voice to data
study all the ones and zeros
mining for insights and trends
to coax a conversation.
As the data grows louder
the pub test goes quieter.
Quiet above the cross-country roadways
a wall of beech and ash circle the view
lush green bursts from meadows and old forests
stitched together in a fresh golden hue.
A textured blanket of silvery clouds
sprays a dance of shadows across the valley
the sun breaks through with sparkles on houses
a transformative show changes hourly.
Silence passing from the dewey hillside
Her heart is filled with jam doughnuts and tea
The ghosts of Austen and Keats whispering
welcome to the finest view in Surrey.
Mountainous fresh air
frozen hands remember trials
an ocean of melancholy
pierced by balloons of joy
I thought I would be honest
the bottle doesn't contain just water
words are trapped and swallowed
they said i was the person to go to
the grey gusts in
and changes everything
wake up, and pay attention
ask, a lot more questions
sometimes clothes don't fit
fairy tales read out loud
nobody knows
that we're all unicorns
my true authentic voice
stands in front of me
in monochrome brown and combat boots
Even now the tide is turning
the clouds above are re-forming
the journey has left its mark
it's just a blemish, discolouration
stitched into patchwork jeans
and still, we keep going.
Fluffy brown shadow
Sings towards the deep blue sky
searching for answers
Does he know the day is rare?
What thrilling game will he play?
An old white soldier
snoozing in his rocking chair
counting all his bones
He knows today is precious
The game is ending for him.
Charlie Ann Alford 
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