Pauline Fayne Poems

Forced by the mentors of madness
to walk the nerve-taut tightrope of the mind,
I find its centre, stand
ceaselessly watching my watchers.
...

So still, it seems
only her fingers move
charcoal-smudged
across the paper landscape
...

It is a day when
the arcaeologists of the soul
bruise you with their questions
and you take to early morning drinking,
...

Autumn chill
blues my daughter's gloveless hands
and she grips mine in both of hers
leading us in a clumsy walk
...

She learnt young
that he would visit
those not blanketed in sleep
before dark
...