Young Writers Society

[Who Stayed]

Sun streams through half-open windows,
rays lap against the back of the room where
two floor lamps are killing shadows.

The one who stayed in art school
sits by the windowsill with her easel,
easing honey yellow onto the canvas.

By her elbow --
sticking out from the cup,
grey bristles fan out
from the thick trunk of a paintbrush
surrounded by weedier cousins.

A bronze hand reaches out
and plucks the one least easily snapped.

[Café-goers]

In the backdrop of a café scene at sunset,
there's those three. Despite sweltering slivers
of afternoon remaining in the yellow bars of light,
they are sipping warm drinks.

Up on the tenth floor, cloud-bound with windows
opening up into forever in summer. Sweet words
to hear and laugh over, as the one presses a porcelain cup
into the hands of the other and fingers brush.

Halcyon days – moments like golden dew-drops
on a thread, clear and diluted for knowing that
they won’t last. Silkily they speak through
the revelation, and drop in three sugar cubes each.

That wide-brimmed cup with a chipped rim
glows like a chalice in a shrine with no deities.

[Sunflower Girl]

Sunflower girl stands tall and big
the bright column of her clean-shirted back
behind her desk. Sandwiched between
the empty car tyres, she glows.

She glows because
she is surrounded by empty car tyres.

Slack jaws all need coffee and sweets,
and she brings them trays upon trays.
Thankless, they waste their weeping away;
she straightens up for another sunflower day.

Because instead of legs they were weeping away,
she straightens up for another sunflower day.

For everything that is needed,
someone must provide it.
If others can only give the wheeze of a puncture,
then it's up to her to stitch, seam and suture.

Because the others wheezed only to puncture,
it’s up to her to stich, seam and suture.

But sunflower girl is smiled upon. Morning loves her,
and she gives thanks for each drop
of light wave honey that lands on her scalp
and runs down her shoulders, and waters her, and feeds her.

Because it feeds her, and waters her, and honeys her flesh,
she stands straight up, like a column proper.

[To the shoreline]

She stood in brackish waters
with trousers rolled to the knee.
The hard rains hammered down,
and drenched her, and stormed her.
With an unreadable line from
her forehead to the tip of her nose,
silver with the water, she turned
and beckoned to us with her hand.
We stopped and stared,
standing on the sand dunes,
then beginning to descend
with large, lilting steps,
and tumbling down into the sea --
she caught us in her arms.

He sat on the soft sands,
when the showers ended,
both hands bent at the wrist
to prop himself up.
The salt of the sea
light and fleeting, wafted by.
His chin was upturned to the moon,
washed in silver like a statue might be.
He sang a siren song in the quiet night,
that purple night, leaking twilight.
We sat on the rocks and listened.
Instead of running away, we realised
we had the beach to ourselves.

[Waiting]

Wind below the bridge, breathing out a sigh,
and quickly stumbling by, the dark green lorries,
fallen garbage bags.

Behind the railing – too silent, the boy pulls out
a packet of crisps, unzipping it while zipping his mouth
with a potato kiss.

How he folds his arms just so – rounding the sharpness
of the metal bar like a low beige crest, leaning over without seeming
too reckless.