To A Robin

You are dead now, poor thing.
The snag of hunger was too much for you,
Tight little ball of life
Paused.
All outstretched.

Your brightness withdraws,
An abandonment to decay.

No gentle oblivion of the earth awaits,
Just the sound of bones
Atop a concrete grave
And an epitaph of distaste
From the passers by.

Poem by Helen Woodroof, Illustration by myself

Magic Shoes

They were gold and glittery
And as I left the shop
Clutching my new treasures
The shop assistant warned me
Not to wear them in the rain.

I guarded them jealously
From the elements, as I imagined
The water would make
The glitter run off, leaving me
Standing in puddles of liquid gold.

And I was caught out
One day by the rain.
But as the umbrellas went up,
All that fell with the drops
Was a sense of disappointment.

Poem by Helen Woodroof, Illustration by myself

Innocence

It smells like the hot, wet tarmac,
The sensual, heavy smell, the
Fertility of the earth oozing through
The cracks.

And we flew over its surface
Young and shining and
Unaware of this adult torture
The sick games we play.
When a boy was just a boy and not
An enemy, a counterpart in
These bizarre dances,
These ever shrinking circles.
We stalk around each other.

And as the years slip by,
The puzzle fills in, the
Truth weighs us down, the ins
And outs, the mechanics.
Until one day,
We’re not children any more.

A Collaborative work. Poem by Helen Woodroof, Illustration by myself.