• Renée

Letter To Los Angeles

(Written in November 2017)


We haven’t met yet.

But, I see you.

I can’t explain it.

For all my words, here’s some I lack.

But there you are.

Framed by an afterglow of

Beauty unforetold.

And in shifting tides of light, there’s this:

A longing.

It’s for you.

You should know: I’m starting shy.

Small town girl.

More blue-eyed wonder than hard-nosed agenda.

But I’m not one for propriety.

And I’ve dreamed brave and strong for you

A hundred lifetimes over.

Now seasoned by the winter,

Chiselled by its flint,

I’m falling fast into your gravity -

And it’s not at all caprice.

It’s everything good.

‘Course, I’m half expecting a tempest.

The wounded can still avenge.

And throwing first stones seems

Powerful to the weak.

My friend once scribbled in the dirt

Before a heated mob of stone-throwers,

In an atmosphere

That was thickly unmerciful.

I don’t know what he wrote.

He’s never said.

But he’s taught me all I know about love.

“It starts patient”, he says.

I’ll be patient.

Especially with your pain.

And should you resist

And return to squalid days,

I will not give you up.

Maybe though, you’ll stay a while,

Uncertain but drawn to the

Hearth of my affections,

And we’ll start slow,

Your steps shaky,


Scarcely baring up your battered soul.

But orphans always run.

And in these soft beginnings

You cannot trust me.

Those wolves still hunt and prey.

I’ll say it - you’re pretentious,


All liquored up and lacquered

In the company of fame.

But your garish charms and raffish ways

Won’t leave me starry-eyed.

I’m seeking sacred.

Eternity exists in everything - did you know?

I’ll tell you. Often.

Because rebirth is unreasonable,

And I’m a harbinger of a new world.

So I’ll drink your air,

Bed roots in your earth,

And graft your crooked corners to my skin -

Nearness won’t be enough.

And whilst onlookers may judge,

Gassing hot air and disapproval,

I’ll give my truest parts

To make you whole.

And when despair, it withers,

And fear serpentines,

And your dignity spills out

In pools of grey;

You aren’t forsaken.

Breath’s in you yet,

Your heart is not the wasteland you’ve presumed.

And for all your jagged edges,

Defences taut and cruel,

You can shed angry nights,

Give peace to your ghettos,

Because grace was made for brokenness,

And she won’t relent.

So be done with brutish men

Ploughing you with rough insistence,

Seeding nothing in your womb

But starved desire.

They’ve only called you harlot.

I will call you home,

Where love will be a salve.

Tender with my words,

Both earthly and Heaven-bound,

I’ll shore up your falling skyline,

And rebuild you strong,

‘Til your eyes blaze wildfire,

And the holiest of overtures

Glide across your soul,

Loosing rhapsody from all your

Captive places.

This, is freedom.

Then, in fading twilight,

Whilst communing with the

King of Kindness,

You’ll find me scratching in my notebook

With wild-faith ink,

My spirit taming light,


Ever upward-gazing,

I’ll be dreaming brave and strong again,

For you.