My mum had a catastrophic addiction.  She died in November 2011.


The morning came cold and clear

ice had crept under my door.

My old dog lay down by the wall, tired out.


I walked without you, without

your hands, your laughs, your yellow scarfs,

red boots, your kites, your magic tricks.

The stones on the beach clacked and clicked.


I slipped off my winter shoes and socks,

stepped into the water, over the rocks,

seaweed slopping against my skin

soft and green.   When I opened my eyes


the sand, the shells, the stones all shone

and there you three were,

as bright as the sun,

riding seahorses.


You waved at me and though I knew I could not run

I said  I tried to love                    Then you were gone

but my old dog was by my side

young again.

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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