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  • Posted on July 17, 2019 at 11:14 pm

Write me a letter I can wait for.
Let me find you on the mat
lean you against my teapot
warm your thoughtful words.
Send me an envelope to open.
Let me slip a blade carefully
in the gap above the tongue
where you licked it closed.
Choose a special stamp.
First or second is fine, but
so I can spend a moment
on its miniature design.
Spread your words over pages.
Unfolding them, turning,
uncovering you at leisure,
I will bring you quietly home.
We could email, message, text.
I could open, read and answer
in a moment in a thought
it could all be said and sudden.
But we would be in a crowd.
In the clutter of chatter and
comment, appeals, spam – and
I would rush not to lose you.
So send me a letter I can wait for.
Give me time to expect you,
joy to discover you, patience
with simplicity – and tea.

2018 © Andie Davidson


  • Posted on February 24, 2019 at 9:42 pm

You know, when someone is dying, but they can rally for a day, seem strong and lucid, and it seems a sign, not of recovery but an inevitability. I passed someone on a late autumn day that was like summer, and we exchanged our ‘good day’s. Was it? After new records this year, is it falling apart?


It is a good day – she stands as complete
as yesterday five years ago
gathered together from her bed
making sense and in command
with fragments in a sentence
that is still real.

Yes, it is a good day.

It is a good day – as the summer extends
into a reluctant autumn
floods recede from hurricanes
matchwood lies after typhoons
expense of fires and high seas
seem unreal.

Yes, it is a good day.

It is a good day – the sun is warm if low
a container ship has sailed
an easy north-west passage
and harvests were shorter too
drowned villages dried
stood real.

It is still a good day.

Today she left us – the leaves are red
we had known all year, kept
the good days to protect us
as everything slowly changed
as darkness dawned
became real.

It is still.

A ship has sailed – ice          fragments
make sense          shorten
it is a good day          for change
we move          inland          leave villages
and coast          gather
it is real.

It is.


© 2018 Andie Davidson

Autumn clothes

  • Posted on February 24, 2019 at 9:23 pm

worn sparingly
a low sun and still too much

twelve years
ago I was 50, a tipping point
in understanding mortality

twelve years ago
you were in school, gatherings
in our world of your friends

twelve years ago you were
calling me a hippie – we both were green
by degrees in my garden

twelve years, two degrees,
two is the difference between a frost
and a frosty day

two is a third of
the difference between Brighton and
Yorkshire in summer

two degrees
are the difference between a heatwave
and a heatwave

one is nothing
the other is forever, neither small,
yet far too big

it is everything
everywhere and all of us, nothing else,
now numbered

today is our tipping point unseen
a day of silence

Autumn leaves
unsparing in a low sun, still
too much

The day after publication, October 2018, of the IPCC Special Report that gave a 12 year window to avoid 2 degrees global warming.

2019 © Andie Davidson

Going Out: Eastern Germany 2017

  • Posted on January 1, 2018 at 1:22 pm

She doesn’t quite catch my hand
it falls—shatters on the ground.

You never quite know.

Windows down the empty way,
nostalgia with suspicion —
a Trabi sits on the lot, a tiny
sufficient reminder
that trust is fragile, still.

I look down at my hand
the pieces silently explain
why I had danced apart last night
to rock, metal and stones, a
wrong fear of anyone too right.

They pointed at us.
They looked disgusted.
You just didn’t see.
At the fruit blossom fest last year,
—and I recall.

The pieces of my hand reluctantly
rearrange themselves, reoccupy
my glove, find my pocket;
join every love darkened by fear
es tut mir leid.

Yes, and knowing
that this is not how change happens.


2017 © Andie Davidson

Basket of Memories

  • Posted on August 10, 2017 at 11:30 pm

There is a series of drawings I should have bookmarked, illustrating grief. One shows two people walking side by side, each holding a handle of a basket marked ‘memories’. The grief version of this image is one person, holding just one handle. Memories are something else when shared, repainted, renewed. Something is forever lost in memories unshared.

And then there is the business of separations, and memories that are denied, memories longed for, memories stirred, and not the same from both sides. This poem began in light of my lost family: chosen and deliberate breaking of memories. And I have seen shared belongings in an unshared space, and wondered about the ways in which I am forgotten.

This poem is a poignant and very real portrayal of losing my family to my personal changes with which they could not cope or embrace. But then I thought about it after writing, and realise that it also applies to my mother’s slow loss of memory (even that I am her daughter), whilst well-remembered things could be found in her house. Things shared, that no longer are; things that could be shared memories, but are not.

The basket of my memories

has a broken handle, many spilled—

I found them arranged on your shelves
hanging in order on your walls

where my eyes are pools
not wells, and dry in the sun
between showers.

There is a mother and there is a daughter
who don’t remember, deliberately—
one doesn’t deliberately remember
the other deliberately doesn’t.

I am a memory in a basket
with no handles
a pool without reflection.

There is a photo of a cat who died—
on your shelf, on your wall.

The recycling basket lies by the door.


2017 © Andie Davidson