With these we are left

This is another poem about loss  – but also, I hope, about life


With These We Are Left


The sweep of her fingers through dust on a mirror

a small hair curled on the bathroom floor

a door handle clicked, pulled shut


a footprint unstepped on sand or rock

a cheek unstroked, three cheers unlaughed

a forehead unkissed goodnight


The window is opened; a breeze slips in,

a thread of cobweb shivers.   The roses unwrap, their scent

spills free and tumbles to the glorious garden.


A child runs into the English sea, waterwild, undressed, undried,

a tiny shoot who will later push and bloom

unweeded through paving cracks.





About sophiewellstood

Teacher and writer, sometimes the other way around. Some of my writing is traditionally published and in bookshops, as well as online. I've put some poems for younger people / lapsed adults here, and some proper swearing. I hope you enjoy.
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