Walking again
It is called love, I suppose,I walk through the park,
flowers showing, the sun bright,
I wish I had worn sunglasses.
I look behind me, then
just watch my feet.
Today promises to be warm,
the morning is cold,
my tights have developed a ladder
I colour them in using black marker,
I know it will stain my leg
and I will scrub and scrub
but it will make me smile in a way,
hardly your aloof doll now,
for which I am glad
and my silence, is just that
when there are no words,
then why should I pronounce.
I am full of thoughts,
full of memories
I walk through a park,
I think of my boys,
I wonder if they know
how much I love them.
I remember gypsy years,
I remember when we could just walk.
I walked and rode the train in India,
my best friend and I travelled
through Vietnam, she is now dead,
not from travels, just died one day
unexplained, aged only in her 40's
leaving a son aged 12 and a daughter 10.
I think of purple rooms
and a hungover horse ride,
driving on two wheels around Marble Arch
on our way to Brighton,
where it rained and we didn't stay.
Walking around a tower
singing, first steps on a stage,
playing, silly games
Sardines in a cupboard
in a house and
Murder in the Dark.
Walking through the park,
my feet go first and I follow.
Poetry by Elle
Read 762 times
Written on 2015-03-05 at 20:24
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
Lawrence Beck |
Esunis |
josephus |
Texts |
by Elle Latest textsTwo Little CatsHills Not the End Cinders Oh perfect Day |
Increase font
Decrease