The Tap

The tap is running in the town square;
It always runs,
Past the moon and sun,
Past noon or past none,
Hidden under clear clouds.

The tap is running in the town square;
Mother Anna draws water
Whilst son little boy Walter
Feels cold spray on a hot day,
And claps his bare hands.

The tap is running in the town square;
The farmer’s daughter draws water
Whilst little toddler Walter
Watches a pretty face blessed with kind grace,
And wheat-gold hair most fair.

The tap is running in the town square;
Every drop a crystal river
Forming shapeless liquid mirrors
Showcasing hearts that don’t fall apart,
But they’re gone by fair morning.

The tap is running in the town square;
My name is big Walter,
And we used to draw water
Mother Anna and I, be it rain or shine,
In line, or at mercy of a pair of blue eyes.

The tap is running in the town square;
My name was big Walter,
And I loved the farmer’s daughter
Till the water caught her, and took her away.
I remember every word she cared to say.

Today, I may stray the occasional Sunday
To the running tap in the dead of night;
I take out my heart, trembling and tight
And put it under the tap’s silvery cold,
And my heart – it folds under the pressure.

I cry
But the tap will run in the morning.

By Joshua Teo


Travelling with ears

My stomach clenches as the plane gathers speed,
And the pressure in my ears starts to build.
Skull constricting against my brain,
A slow pounding starts in my head.
I feel compressed, claustrophobic;
I need air!

Trying to breath, I wreathe in my seat
Against the relentless pain.

I hear nothing
Except the ring of blood.

The seatbelt sign is off!
And then the slow screech,
Pain like a knife stabs at my ears.
They scream in protest.
I succumb to another onslaught of pain.

But then:


By Zahra-Claire Bahrani-Peacock


Nothing is certain

I dare not try
to ease your aching mind,
As you sit at the top of the stairs
Hair standing on end
Like a slinky.
A trembling coil of potential energy
Waiting to descend.
You’re caught unawares
By uncertainty.

Yet the daytime rhythms remain.
The spiders hang on
water crystals.
they wait to drop.

The trees are stocked with pigment.
The bark sits hard from bitter years.
Splintering, weeping treacle tears.

Nothing is certain.
Suspended on the scales,
Waiting to weigh our
Sins against our sorrows

All eyes are on the clouds tonight.
Their silver shapes promise
to turn a charcoal grey.
Our future looms
In the hazy, wavy lines
of the horizon.

The sun is setting,
The velvet curtain.
Nothing is certain.

By Georgie Tindale