Timothy Fisher from Harriet Bradshaw by Harriet Bradshaw

Timothy Fisher

Timothy Fisher, he paws at the pitcher of water before him
and hesitates a beat--
His hand is a tremble,
His mind is a shiver,
And everywhere people are better and newer
and healthier than ever they were.
He’s trying to part with the part of himself that’s a child, avoiding demands,
but his hands… his hands…

They give him away,
That he can’t be left in a room with a glass half full,
Or it will laugh.

So he’s holding on tight to the water,
But water it has its slippery ways,
(Pearls that snap and scatter in curls)
And he’s longing for the last trace of a burn in his chest…

He’s longing to lounge half drunk in the half light to Blue Eyes,
Like those nights I languished in his arms,
And died a little, diagonally drawn,
Strewn to the wind as petals or seed.
Resents me for growing the thought that he sewed in me,
Feels the world owes him a dream.

“Don’t I dream enough?” he says,
"Spend half my days in a faraway haze!
God knows, I’ve had enough visions of smoke-filled rooms;
Of conspirators, blue in their luscious cocoons…
I shouldn’t be stuck in this Thursday afternoon!”

But he won’t be told that the dream he was sold
Is any less beautiful than the whole wide world.

Always trying to get in, when he should be breaking out of the bottle.

• Folk
• alternative folk
• female
• music hall
• singer-songwriter
• songwriter
• Middlesbrough