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I came together in the cold. The press of small hands shaping me to life, rounding, lifting, setting me upright against the day. The ground held firm under my weight as the sky grew pale and wide above me, light spreading across my skin with a cool warmth that enriched the core of my being.

Snow fell around me, soft and patient, filling the quiet spaces, nestling into my shoulders and arms, clinging gently as if it knew me. More arrived in careful drifts, the air busy with white, the world hushed and bright all at once. Somewhere close, bells chimed faintly, carried on the breeze with lazy charm.

A scarf wrapped around my middle, wool warmed with borrowed heat, smelling of cupboards, laughter and something sweet baking nearby. A hat followed, place with ceremonious laughter that sparked a smile in the coal of my eyes. Suddenly, the world had edges and colour. Snowbanks rose like small hills, cut by the prints of childish feet. Mittens smoothed me proudly, as cherubic faces of pink giggled with unburdened glee.

They ran in wide circles, boots crunching, scarves trailing behind them like bright ribbons. Snowballs whipped through the air, bursting into powder before they ever thought to land. Breath bloomed in pale clouds and vanished just as quickly, laughter lingering longer than the sound itself, as if the air itself wanted to keep it there.

The yard felt endless then, wrapped in white and wonder. Windows glowed softly from the house, spilling squares of gold onto the snow. Each time the door opened, warmth rushed out to meet the cold, carrying music and voices and the promise of hands held close inside. It all drifted together, sound, light, motion, settling into the evening like something meant to be kept. Time moved gently. It wandered rather than passed. I stood where they left me, finished and certain, watching the day stretch and fold in on itself.

When the sky deepened to blue and stars blinked awake, the children slowed. They paused to look at me once more, patting my sides, adjusting my scarf, laughing softly as if afraid to wake the night. Then they went inside, leaving the yard glowing and quiet.

I remained, wrapped in winter and light, holding the day exactly as it was, whole, warm, and bright with the simple magic of Christmas.

Every choice casts a second shadow,
A quiet twin that drifts the other way.
Walking backwards through imagined hours,
Along an unlit, unwritten day.
While one world grows wild with possibility,
Feral with colour, breath and sound,
The other sinks beneath the surface,
Like a forest swallowed, root and crown.

Every step that finds its way
Through maps of dust and open air,
Erases gardens never planted,
And constellations that were never there.
Silent roots beneath each choice,
Tangle through the darkened ground,
Drinking from forgotten rivers,
Where invisible costs are found.

For every door that opens wide,
With brass-lit hinges, warm and bright,
Another settles into stillness,
Leaning to live without the light.
No moment ever stands alone,
No answer comes without its weight,
For time collects all maybes, too,
In archives never set by fate.

My grandad is a mountain, steady, strong and true,
A man who never falters in the hardest things he’ll do.
He walks with quiet purpose, with courage in his stride,
A strength that never wavers and a heart he’ll never hide.

My grandad builds up worlds with skill that never ends,
He shapes the rough into something fine, the kind which life depends.
He turns bare boards into beauty, makes the broken good as new,T
here’s nothing he can’t fix when he sets his mind ‘to do’.

My grandad gives so freely, never asking for reward,
He’s first to lend a helping hand, the steady, quiet sort.
He puts others before himself in everything he does,
A man whose honest, open heart defines the best of us.

My grandad never grumblers at the tough cards life has thrown,
He shoulders ever burden with a courage all his own.
He rises to each challenge with a calm unshaken grace,
A quiet sort of bravery time can never erase.

My grandad leaves a legacy I learn from every day,
In the things he shows with actions and the quiet words he’ll say.
And while he’s here beside me, I carry this with pride:
My grandad is the strongest man, with love that doesn’t hide.

There is an orchard that no one owns,
Where stories echo as trees grow old.
The wind hums a choir through hollowed stones,
Of youth once bright, now turning cold.

But first it starts with bright green leaves,
Fattened fruit, and healthy seeds.
A gentle lie the summer weaves,
Before frost comes with silver weeds.

It picks the petals off the rose,
To see the brittle secrets shown.
It walks the path no mercy knows,
To hear the shape of undertone.

The orchard shifts, the soil dries,
The apples bruise, the peaches sour.
The honey sags beneath the flies,
And the sweetness wilts by the hour.

The birds circle and take what shimmers,
Never mourning the branches stripped.
Their gentle claws are practiced trimmers,
With nectar coating each bit they’ve dipped.

The shadows stretch along the rows,
Where whispered time dissolves the air.
A hollow murmur only grows,
And leaves a taste of something rare.

You stand witness to every season,
Collecting ripeness with the rot.
Too young to name the creeping treason,
Too old to claim you feel it not.

The orchard never speaks its warning,
It simply is, and was, and will,
A blooming elegy by the morning,
A song of loss the twilights fill. 

And so…

The wind will tell you, if you stay,
Of all the things that fade and fray.
For time will take, and leave, and sever,
And nothing waits for you forever.

I once felt Death through the trembling glass of memory, when laughter lingered in rooms now cold,
And though His touch was cloaked in unholy grace, I turned away, refusing the omen,
For he was not meant to claim me yet,
A spectre stalking others, a burden I believed not mine to bear.

I buried His presence in silence, as one buries the dread they cannot name,
Deep beneath the weight of unuttered fears, beneath the pride that scorned my fragility,
And the cruel mercy of time, which does not heal,
But merely dulls the terror just long enough for it to rise anew

Years dragged by, a slow decay of days and shadows, where I swore He would not follow,
Where I laboured to strip Him from pulse and thought,
To let seasons gnaw away His chill until even memory forgot His tread.

Yet He returned.

Even in laughter’s brightest hour, when sunlight dared rest upon my skin,
He lingered just beyond notice,
A breath too cold, a shadow unaccounted for, a gente pressure upon my soul,
Reminding it that bliss is borrowed.

In crowded rooms, He stands unseen behind me,
A silent guest whom only I perceive,
A presence threading through every heartbeat with the patience of centuries.

Happiness becomes a fragile truce,
For His voice, velvet and relentless, whispers that nothing gold ever survives His gaze for long.

He calls to me not with terror, but temptation,
An invitation wrapped in rest.
Why struggle? Why fear the quiet that waits for all?

I feel him always: a breath along my neck, mid-laughter, mid-dream,
Reminding me that joy too has a pulse that will one day still.
He watches the rise and fall of my chest with a collector’s patience,
Counting each moment I steal from eternity.
His hymn sings beneath each heartbeat, a dark lullaby,
Sweet as surrender, sure as nightfall.

But he shall not rush me, shall not force my hand.
For Death is a gentleman who knows I will come for him,
In time.

One for sorrow, a phantom alone,
A single feather and a hollowed bone.
It circles the fields where the lost are found,
And carries the silence of a burial ground.

Two for joy, yet joy may sting,
A fleeting light on a fragile wing.
Their chorus rings where darkness bloom,
A wedding song for the open tomb.

Three for a girl, a fate foretold,
Wrapped in shadows, fragile and cold.
Her cradle sways where the candles weep,
And voices coil her restless sleep.

Four for a boy, with storm-worn hair,
Born to wander, born to scare.
The wind bends low to trace his path,
And whispers linger in aftermath.

Five for silver, a thief’s cold prize,
Stolen from sockets of staring eyes.
Coins from a crypt, a ring from the slain,
All glittering trinkets with traits of pain.

Six for gold, the devil’s seed,
Fire and famine, hunger and greed.
It blinds the seeker, devours the soul,
Offering plenty, the price of control.

Seven for a secret that festers and burns,
Locked in the dark where no one returns.
It rots in the marrow, it sleeps in the skin,
A curse on the heart that carries it in.

Eight for a wish, but beware what you crave,
For wishes may open the door to a grave.
The tongue may plead, the stars may hear,
Yet gifts from the night are never that clear.

Nine for a kiss, but bitter the taste,
A mouthful of ashes, a love laid waste.
It lingers like smoke on the lips of the lost,
A promise remembered, whatever the cost.

Ten for the bird you cannot miss,
A haunting call, both dark and bliss.
It waits on the boundary, where all beginnings end,
No foe, no lover, no ghost, no friend.

Lanterns bloom on crooked porches,
Orange against the creeping dusk.
The air is stitched with smoke and cider,
A sweetness laced with rust.

Branches bend like secret keepers,
Shadows pool in candle flame.
Footsteps echo down leaf littered paths,
Whispering October’s name.

Windows creak with gentle stories,
Laughter tumbling through the glass.
Outside fog drapes low and silent,
As through the world wears a mask.

Crisp the night and sharp the starlight,
Fields lie hushed in amber dreams.
The earth is clothed in fading fire,
And nothing is quite as it seems.

Beneath the hush, a warmth is glowing,
a hearth, a fire, a waiting door.
The night is wide, the wind is knowing,
As autumn gathers us once more.

Organised chaos disorder

Again and again

The chaos of order

Again and again

Order, arrange

Its all the same

Arrange and arrange

Precise and aimed

The chaos disorder, of the orders order

Will order the orders to disorder

Order is, order is, order is, order,

Organised chaos disorder

I entered again and did not hear
Not even a whisper not even a cheer

You didn’t read it properly
Read it again
You don’t know on what this depends

My prize is the silence
My mind the thing that shook.
Take away the fans and all that’s left is the looks

You don’t understand what’s it’s like to be me
I will show you and you will see

When I’m gone you’ll see my fame
But you dashed it away, again and again

A light in my life slowly going dim
You could have saved me but you put me in the bin

So read my last entry and let it sink in
Because that is the one that will always win