Amongst The Wreckage Of Wednesday Morning I Found Her Curled Up Like Sunday And Alone

Rocking gently like a harboured boat
upon the muddy banked estuary of Penryn.
I’ve never before witnessed
tears trickle that slowly,
sighs the depth of thunder,
yet, with double the meaning and importance.
To hear a woman cry and moan
from the Soul like that… Jesus…
strangles colour and magic from the day.
Flatlines both hope and faith…
leaving an aching doorway
to negativity and doubt wide open.
Your kisses and caresses
merely get in the way
of Grief and the rumbling course it’s taking.
Words are wingless birds…
falling dead and useless from your unhelpful mouth.
You’d fight a God, tear apart a mountain,
decimate entire barbarian armies
to bring her one fraction of a second of relief.
But, as empathic as you are…
you are trapped outside the frozen walls
of anguish and understanding.
Instead, you stay close, pace floors hard
and pray that come the Funeral…
She’ll alone find the necessary strength
to Phoenix up through those chains of pain.

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer, who’s currently up to his elbows in Magic, and long may it remain this way. Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.