At Grudge’s Harbour

It’s grey, dark and forever shadowy
like charcoal thumb-smudges gone awry.
Sleet slashes sideways
as the North Sea winds
rip and temper-tantrum
like screeching victims, ghost trains
and the drums of mountain giants.
Yet, she sits under a hooded cloak of fury
oblivious to all of this…
burning from the inside out
whilst poking at the decrepit
little campfire of negative nostalgia before her.
Stuck permanently… because she doesn’t know it.
Self imprisoned and deserted by everyone
including her very own bright side.
To guard ever watchful
the rocking, menacing boats of anger
moored malignant and always close at hand.
Seething whilst bleeding black
into a broken soul…
clinging stubbornly and refusing to budge
from that precise hurtful moment
which ice-picked her emotions
fast and sure to this bleak, un-turnable page.

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.