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

Writer of long and short stories, poems and songs. Some of my fiction is traditionally published and in bookshops. I've put some daft poems for younger people / lapsed adults here, as well as some proper swearing, which I enjoy doing a lot.
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