For a bunch of witches
…so normal and everyday, just a piece of the world that’s always happening, a mundane magic that calls through me like the song of a wineglass, and the roads shine in the last of the sun, and it’ll be full of an enchantment too big for any one heart to hold alone. So hold hands with me, my loves, and we’ll go walking, shiny second skins reflecting the stars as they come out one by one.
And then there’s the other side of it, the dragging silence of late Sunday. Full of school ghosts. It’s full of longing, if we’re fortunate, and regret if we are not. This is what it costs – the Sunday night trains that haunt me, the empty last bus, the traffic lights that change themselves over and over, remembering the crowds.
Do you know what it is to be yourself, to wear yourself in all your colours? How precious that is? Oh you do, you do, and you know it well, and it was dearly bought with pain and starlight. And still, it’s such a simple beautiful secret, so simple and so radiant that I want to rush up to each and every high street stranger, to see what light’s in them, to ask with a desperation that borders on mania, is this you? Look at us, look at this, you can shine, please, if what’s in you is the need to shine, then be radiant, because Sunday night is always coming and the best of times are just little splinters, tiny and bright sharp things, that get swept away before you even feel the scratch.
I want to put all the shards together again and build something new, something that holds the light
The absolute perfect silence of a Sunday morning and the cold that accompanies it, right through to the bones. The light that diffuses through strange clouds, taking forms of things never seen. This city becomes alien, but perhaps we start to reflect a little of that ourselves, maybe that fractured sunrise reflects in our eyes. Oh, and it’s a hard road back from the shores of night, we all know that, and it’s a steep harsh climb back to the oppressions of Sunday late dark; the empty house, the unmade silent bed, and more wineglasses than you’ll need till next time. But once I’d come to the beach and looked at the ocean, I never doubted the worth of throwing my heart into it.
Crow Violets 