last night the moon
a slice of watermelon
almost within reach
last night the moon
a slice of watermelon
almost within reach
from a balcony
ripped laundry streams in tatters
above the rubble
how still the tulips
their heads weighed down by teardrops
shed from troubled skies
feeling as grumpy
as a cat with a hairball
those unfinished tasks
the happiest days
when young and the future seemed
less scary than now
watching and waiting
while something inwardly screams
can this be human
such a dark morning
the sun forgotten to rise
a fog of damp tears
That race, the heat of the mountain road. The crash of my bike as it fell. A hazy cottage. Three walls and a hanging door. The shade of a Cyprus tree where the roof once was, where my eyes struggled to adjust, where half blind I saw a table, felt a chair supporting me, my hands gripping its arms. Before closing my eyes I glimpsed a woman ladling out a measure.
What could I have seen at all? Knowing only that she tipped the measure into a mug of milk, her voice urging – drink, sip slowly, feel the texture. Sip, and feel, sip and feel, sip and feel. My voice echoing hers, her words gliding over my tongue; a voice soothing a ragged throat, flowing down to a beating heart, holding it like a hand cupping the head of a new-born.
And all the while, the woman is building a fire. I hear the placing of sticks in a grate, the striking of a match, a brief phosphorescent smell, the crackle of pinecones catching light.
And later, remembering the coolness of the ruin, the smoothness of milk, and remounting my bike, how the sun dipped below the peaks, to the bleating of a goat, and the sweet buzz of honeybees on mountain thyme.
darkness creeping in
caught between two weather fronts
watching for the storm
The Online Space of Dr Gillian Shirreffs
fiction writer
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Responsible Spirituality of Recovery