Bend On The Inside Of A Teacup Handle

After a fortnight away from Art Therapy classes,
(Which she had attended religiously for 3 years,
in between Psychiatric Hospital stays)
she returned with a shortened fringe
and an unusual smile upon her glowing face.
This scared half the people in attendance,
and confused the gobsmacked others.
Her once charcoal, and heavy grey pencil sketches
changed that day… she actually watercoloured ecstatic,
with spontaneous giggling flourishes,
and euphoric splashes of uncontainable happiness, whoosh!
Concerned, the lady with the name badge
called her out into the hall and asked her to explain.
“I met someone, an orphan boy lost,
he’s caring and lovely.
We eat from the same plate,
and we nonsense-talk away the serious edge
of each solemn hour by unfinishing each others sentences.
And when we lay down, foetal, in the half-dark…
some call it *cwtching, others spooning,
but words simply do not do it any justice… it’s perfect,
I feel just like the bend on the inside of a teacup handle…
as my emotional scars uncrack and mend.
So, I’ve come in one last time today,
not to gloat, but to share my Springtime…
and to show that the dark, smothering tunnel
does indeed eventually surface and find its own ending.”

* “cwtch” is a Welsh word and when translated into English means “cuddle”.

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer who deals in the Lowlife, Outsider, and Outlaw genres.  He wrote his first poem as a teenager following his release from the (Infamous) Borstal ‘HMP Portland’, and he has been creating Literary Terrorism ever since. Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.