Side pony-tails and blue wellies
Found your red dusty rusty earth
Enchanting the young, wild and free
Behind the fences of Wentworth.
I loved hopping over the sty
Hunting the chestnuts on the ground
Scaling the Oak into the sky
Enchanted by the woodland sound.
You line the memories of my heart
A drop in the ocean of me
And although we are miles apart
I think of you often, happily.
Thank you for my magic childhood
My little patch of English wood.
I am a blade of short grass
Dancing along the river
Bubbled by the southern sun
And simmered by Sunday mass.
I’m not like the other hues
I only long for one step more
Springing from this tight pruned world
An adventure for the true.
Life took me from my woodland
Skipping, stumbling with the breeze
The passage of time followed
As I learned to take command.
I still have many rocks to climb
In my dreams along the Rhine.
I am a brown eyed unicorn
tip-toeing through this universe
afraid of my own echoes.
I want to find my voice and shine.
but I am a brown eyed unicorn.
I step to centre stage
the spotlight burns my soul
intensifying the fear.
I don’t belong here.
I don’t know where I belong.
I am just a brown eyed unicorn.
There is a reason for everything
the carousel keeps turning
the mountain needs climbing
and I am always wondering
why was I born, a brown eyed unicorn?
The sun went to sleep
fell into the shadows
the night crept in deep
but no one will know.
The houses flicker
warmth and golden vibes
but can you see her
top window, she hides.
Waiting in the dark
for the night to take
the remaining spark
leaves lust in his wake.
Shadows are sleeping
the night is deepening
the eyes are knowing
a moments dreaming.
A coffee table, a simple piece,
To hold our cups, to rest our feet.
But oh, the joy it can impart,
When chosen well, with care and heart.
I read a review of one today,
A table meant to steal the day.
It spoke of wood, of strength and grace,
Of sleek design and perfect space.
The reviewer praised its sturdy frame,
Its smooth top, its elegant name.
And as I read, I felt a spark,
A longing for that coffee ark.
To gather round with friends and kin,
To share our stories, let love begin.
To feel the warmth of morning sun,
To sip our brew, to laugh and fun.
Oh coffee table, how you inspire,
A sense of home, a cozy fire.
A place to pause, to slow and breathe,
To find our peace, to believe.
So thank you, reviewer, for your words,
For showing me what grace affords.
I’ll seek that table out one day,
And toast to you, in its sweet sway.
Stop saying ‘my understanding is’
be active and straight with your words
Stop second guessing your position
say what you need to say, be heard.
I’m not going to be here.
I’m not going to answer.
I’m not sitting around waiting
I’m dancing like a sunflower.
Courage is not the absence of fear…
Aged council houses in the Home Counties
backed onto deep dark historic woodlands
haunted by castle ruins and shelters
brought to life by village children.
At the end of the short cul-de-sac
a long footpath disappeared with the night
mothers shouted curfew bells at sunset
and demanded a return to the light.
Do not go into the woods after dark.
Not a step beyond the street light shadow.
Across the line the boogey man will wait
for naughty children who never listen.
Do not go into the woods after dark.
The flickering shadows are not your friends.
The boogey man will come, wait and see
and you’ll wish you had just listened to me.
Fast forward to the turn of the century
this village child became a teenager
where adventures went beyond the woodland
but never beyond the path after dark.
Because the boogey man could be waiting.
And I wrote you a playlist of
Bob Ross’ voice, more serene than
Coastal lakes lining mountains.
Did I get the right vibe?
Even if we are not leaving
For the next year or so
Google drive through the same day
How down the hill did we fall?
Is it this time of Autumn?
Just an in between of seasons.
Know how to get the old boys back
Like those immortal 90s shows.
My phone died like a car crash
Not sure what happened but it
Ordered a few more days to
Park in the present, oi vey.
Question? We have to go ahead
Rest and breathe for tomorrow
See I will miss the next dream
That you planned without me.
Until it’s like a normal
Video of you and me
What do you want to do?
X-ray the situation?
Yeah I’m not sure about road trips.
Zaddy, I’m writing to you.
It’s the beginning of a thriller film
Shiny, glossy and hauntingly quiet
except for the clikety clack of keys
and the old coffee machine whirring by it.
It’s not somewhere one dreams of going
the cover does not match the story
silent tells the voice stopped growing
It’s not the place for pride and glory.
Charlie Ann Alford 
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