Weather Girl

The weather girl

Has a way with warm fronts

And isobars.

Her tropical gaze

Makes storms seem tame

As she tells you it looks like rain.

Oceans rise

And villages are swept away,

While you’re off making tea.

Her thermal smile

Betrays no irony.

Her image reigns

long after the programme fades,

Leaving no choice

But to trust each new forecast.

Smoke and Mirrors

It’s often like that, don’t you think?
Things don’t turn out as planned,
Unless they’re not:


Those mist-filled moments

Where everything’s clear.

Take your name:
I forgot it the moment you said it,
But still remember.

With dreams,
You don’t need a map.

I’ll meet you here,
At the café
With the faded mirrors,
Wherever you are.