Poem: Cold October Days by Tia Buck

Tia is a dear friend of mine, I've known her since I was wee. We grew up around Uxbridge together and both share love over Virginia Woolf (and her relationship with Vita Sackville-West) and country air. I love her dearly. So here is the first part of her writing. I think she's swell. Part two is coming shortly.

You have an air of October and the face of spring,

the smell of summer sticks like smooth caramel on

your skin and you’re like an open book with flowers on every page,

everything untouched yet revealing as you trick the world into thinking they know everything about you

whilst the truth is kept only for a privileged few

Who are determined to see through your façade and the clothes you wear and the way you laugh at boys

who aren’t funny

But you think are charming

And you smile at them like they have something interesting to say when really you’re the interesting one

The girl who is always the muse,

His, hers, mine

The girl who is loved by girls and by men

But cannot love back

Her heart doesn’t allow it

How I wish the touch of her fingers on my skin meant more than lust fuelled by the desire to make art with two bodies,

To her everything is art, and to be art is to be her everything

She keeps me warm in the Autumn, but is gone by the spring

As the cool April air sends her to big and better things,

I tried to read her pages yet April brings showers

And the thunder in my heart and the rain on the ink,

Consumed everything we once had and washed away what I thought I knew

about her, and about us

and even though I know the thought of being my muse

amuses her,

I still analyse her like a painting,

in the V and A

On those cold October days.