Alison Wells Author

Words are always there bubbling up from all the years, all the thinking, all the hearing, all the seeing, all the memories, layer on layer.

Words are in the night and early morning between waking and sleeping, wisp cloud phrases evaporating

Words are on the underside of dreams, in the dragged behind blanket of the child inside.

Words are at the washing line and at the shore edge and in sunsets and in the life-worn face of the man at the busstop.

Words are in the upside backwards phrases of children, infants new to language, hanging it on new pegs

Words are under the bed in dust bunnies while you’re cleaning, overhead in spider tread cobwebs

Words are in your heart, your head, your eyes, your mouth, your nose, your liver, blood and toes

Words are in the soft bleary eyed graphic scratchings on wood made pale and blank and waiting

Words are in the grasping for threads, glistening in the periphery, rotating out of reach but then…

Somehow, held, caught, fastened, fashioned, siphoned, sipped, snipped, clipped, shone, one put upon another, like this