cathdavies

Aspiring writer living in North Wales

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  • cathdavies 14h

    Cancel cancel culture.

    @cathdavies

  • cathdavies 16h

    Unwritten

    In the yellow afterlight of the sun,
    I hold onto love.
    The sky has been black,
    and the Covid is five months in
    and counting.

    Indoors, thunder has shaken
    the house. Outside,
    a dead swallow
    lies sacrificially on the path,
    and I count it.

    I dare not retrieve it.
    Instead, I count the thunder claps,
    the lightning strikes,
    the way the world seems washed
    and cleansed at last.

    ©cathdavies

  • cathdavies 3d

    We are carbon life -

    birds and bones and blood,

    with a responsibility

    not to wreck everything.

    @cathdavies

  • cathdavies 4d

    Hedgehog

    What is love otherwise
    if it cannot rain?
    If life and grief
    have curled you into a ball,
    spines angled
    against the world,
    then I am your wife,
    and will lie there with you,
    and feel the rain
    as it falls to the ground,
    for it will stop,
    as rain does, and pain.
    For what is love otherwise
    if it cannot rain?

    ©cathdavies

  • cathdavies 1w

    Spaceship Earth

    We are obsessed
    by intangibles.

    Love. Sex. Hate. Redemption.

    Meanwhile, the Earth travels thousands of miles,
    yet we feel nothing.

    We are carbon life -

    birds and bones and blood,

    with a bittersweet terrible responsibility

    not to wreck everything.

    We feed on wine and field animals,
    slaughter defining us.

    Yet we are kind.
    This immense puzzle of who we are

    is nowhere near solved.
    It is past midnight, and I still feel nothing,

    yet the Earth

    has careered

    around the sun

    in a Universe

    itself expanding as I breathe.

    ©cathdavies

  • cathdavies 1w

    Earth is a spaceship, they said.

    Don't crash it, they didn't say.

    @cathdavies

  • cathdavies 1w

    Letter to the next generation

    Here is a box.
    We want you to store in it
    all that the world you will inherit
    does not need.
    Line it with fossil fuels.
    Pack inequality
    at the bottom,
    and place brutality and prejudice
    in, layer after layer.
    Place certain political legacies
    near the top.
    Close the lid.
    We will supply
    a code so unbreakable
    you will never contend, ever,
    with anything in it.
    This is our promise to you
    and we will bury it.
    Now let us start.

    ©cathdavies

  • cathdavies 2w

    Witnesses

    In the era of Covid,
    a bystander on the streets
    is accosted,
    divested of his belongings
    and left for dead.

    His assailant is invisible.
    An onlooker sees him fall for no reason,
    his clothes shed,
    his heart stopping even though
    nothing is there.

    Through his eyes,
    his world stops too.
    All he sees
    are the bright lights on the ceiling
    above a hospital bed.

    They say you must tell a story
    from a consistent
    viewpoint. He cannot.
    There is the eye that cannot see Covid.
    The onlooker. The patient.

    For all three,
    focus makes us so mortal.
    For the thousands that didn't get up
    the onlooker looks here. There.
    Everywhere for him.

    ©cathdavies

  • cathdavies 2w

    There is a side to my nature

    The washing is scrambled in a pile.
    I compress a cigarette box
    in my hand.
    Drain a glass of wine.
    As usual,
    I am igniting the oil beyond midnight.
    Rambling around
    social media.
    My energy crashing the living room.
    There is a side to my nature
    that feels uncomfortable
    in a dress.
    As I chain drink coffee in cups,
    the garden grows
    as it does.
    But at the end of all this creating,
    I am only really one girl,
    climbing the stairs to you,
    who calms every side of my nature.

    ©cathdavies

  • cathdavies 2w

    They mourn, but you are whispering
    in their ears eternally.

    @cathdavies