Lost in a world of fog,
fog developed by my own choosing.
Smoggy and full of thick smoke,
failing to find my way.
Following my own footsteps,
losing myself in the process.
Alcohol providing the perfect cover,
to hide behind, even on good days.
Waiting to die,
waiting to live.
Waiting for life itself,
something good comes my way.
When all is lost, I choose to live on,
when not so long ago I chose an overdose.
The easy way out,
the scared option
Waiting for a day to carry on,
waiting for a day to be more than a survivor.

©2013 Trevor Litchfield


HMRC Revenue and Customs


HMRC (Photo credit: Images_of_Money)

I can never get through!
The line is always so freakin’ busy.
What I have to say is important,
it affects everything I say and do
but no, the line is still busy,
unmelodious tunes play in my ear.

You continually write to me, asking me to call
but no-one ever answers, it’s driving me crazy!
All I hear is please hold, the lines are busy,
one of our representatives will be with you soon.
It would take less than five minutes to have my say,
to get things said and sorted once again.
But no! Please hold!


Waiting for the rain under a dark brooding sky,
ground already sodden but eager for more.
Crops that were wilting, desperate for water
now lay on the soft ground, ready to rot.
For all that water falling from the clouds
yet more hangs in the air to be carried to other lands.
Year after year deserts become dryer, expanding.
Wetlands become rarer or destroyed totally.
Water falls from the heavy clouds in deluges,
washing away all before it, scouring the land.
Coastlines fall into the sea as tides reach ever higher.
Defenceless beaches washed away in days,
leaving behind fresh scars in the exposed land.
And on it goes, we heat the air, it holds more moisture
to fall more heavily on unprepared lands.
Building on floodplains, then damming the rivers,
expecting them to cope with more volume,
surprised when our homes are flooded!
As a species will we never learn?

©2012 Trevor Litchfield

The Storm Outside

Attempting to find sleep in the early morning hours as the storm rages outside.
Watching the performers in my life struggle to find their perfect part.
Learning their lines but seemingly always missing their cue,
berating themselves yet not understanding my tranquillity as I watch,
thinking they have upset the balance, when in fact the play is perfect.

Rain lashes itself against the windows, rivulets running down the pains.
Tears of life falling yet strangely, I am unmoved by their flow.
I sit composedly in the middle of the floor, absolving all around me,
Calm in the middle of the storm on this early morning vigil,
attempting to make sense of the imposed wreckage outside.

The life I now lead is one of my choosing, I choose not to incriminate.
I am not looking for the storm to subside, it will exhaust itself
and I will remain seated on the floor in self absorbed satisfaction,
in the knowledge that the performers will learn to live with imperfection
as nature performs her imperfect dance outside the window.

The storm rages on as rain and wind lash the walls outside.
Calmness within the walls reflect how I see the storm,
it will blow over as all storms must, leaving behind broken branches,
but not a broken heart, not this one at least.
All the performers are important to me, they could never fail me.

There is no competition, each has won their own award,
a place in my heart that will remain forever theirs.
So let the storm subside. Let it pass us by.
Windswept and dishevelled, we can brush ourselves down and start anew.
We must all remain in the play as surely as the wind is part of the storm.

©2012 Trevor Litchfield

Deserted Beach

Long stretches of golden sand before my eyes,
the sea lapping gently as if caressing the land.
Quiet on this midwinter day, yet full of wonder.
Walking along the deserted beach,
chill north winds bringing water to my eyes.
Sand packed hard as frost and wind
do their best to keep the land frozen.
Razor shells protruding like mini way markers
along the route, leading further than the eye can see.
Sand blasted away from these protrusions by gusts,
leaving shallow sand trails I their wake.

Low dunes offering sanctuary to sheltering wildlife,
cowering from the frozen blasts among grass and heather.
Spiders, ants and a myriad other insects,
attempting to gain a slender foothold on the drifting sand.
Sea birds hop along the shoreline, searching for a meal,
then wheeling up into the air as I approach.
Squawking out to their comrades, warning of my presence.
I walk on leaving my own footprints in the sand,
footprints covered by nightfall with newly frozen sand.
Water laps ever higher up the beach,
until it is time to return to the depths.

©2012 Trevor Litchfield

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