• Vol. 10
  • Chapter 07


If tears emerge with ease, these days, so what?
So feelings are strong, sensation moves,
the situation compels the ducts to act.
Tears trickle down soft cheeks
interspersed with whiskers
now more white than grey
and watchers somehow see them slide
and later they might gently say,
‘Were you crying, then?’

It doesn’t feel like crying, actually.
When they come, it’s more like tearing,
an emerging tier of tears,
a taring re-balance,
a sense of lightness as the slow cascade
drips softly, soft and silent,
as something tugs, tears the shell
wide open, to reveal a feeling felt.

It’s almost always joy, or empathy —
it never feels sorry-making for oneself.
There’s the stimulus, maybe music,
for that’s the quickest trigger,
or maybe another’s pride, a shared
shed tear in accomplishment.
‘Were you crying, then?’ You know,
you know I was. I’m going to invent
a better word. I’m going to say,
in the lateral way we talk about the washing
carried damp to dry in sunshine,



that I’m hanging out the blessings, so
I’ll say, of my tears, I’m weeping colours,
the colours that were waiting
for the soft reveal.

Merely opening the shutter
to the mist of tears, like raindrops
through which, illumined,
perhaps a promise,
a covenant of trust,