Mike Leigh

Mike Leigh
on TV again.
Real people with
real lives.
Devoted husbands,
unemployed,
brewing tea
for working class wives.

The air is dark,
darker, darkest,
coaxing thinner, thinnest, thick.
Undercurrents
swimming like
revelations from an
emotionless brick.
Rich in mundane complexity.
Painting simplest simplicity slick,

with connotation.
Rare to see a
privileged education,
rattling amongst the
state school accents.
Real people,
real lives.
Car crash fortunes,
Scripted accidents.

Mike Leigh
on TV
again.
Real people with
real lives.
Living for the
in your face
realism.
Peddling pain
with the blades
of blunt knives.

Real people.
Real lives.

Sarah Drury. 2021

Strange

Strange

I must be strange.
That weird girl.
Covid raging,
people dying.
Maybe I shut out
the reality.
Maybe my eyes
see only the beauty
in the world,
when I should weep
and mourn
the ugliness.
But how can I
bear to paint
black
that which sets
free my soul,
as I bask in
the light?
My ears may
not hear the cries
of trauma,
but my soul does,
and I paint them
silent,
and pen them into
translucent echoes.

I must be strange.
That weird girl.
Covid raging,
people dying.
Maybe I shut out
the reality.
Maybe my heart
sees only the goodness
in the world,
when I should pray
and cry for
the desperation.
But how can I
bear to sing
in rhythms of dissonance,
that which sets
free my heart,
as I dance in
the light.
My soul may not
dance with
demons,
but my mind
sees,
and I shut my eyes
and paint the pictures
and write the words
and live in
my kaleidoscope bubble.

Sarah Drury. 2021