Regression Journal Entry

Earlier in the day of my Violent Death
… we were alone at home.
I say the word ‘Alone’
because we had become as one person
… in our five short years together.

I had held you to my raging chest
… as you fell-apart
over four consecutive miscarriages.
You spoon-fed me soup…
as I convalesced a fractured skull…
avenging your youngest sister’s attack.

We lived in a little secluded cottage
at the edge of The Forest Of Dean
… and had both spent a week
stocking up on Winter fire wood.
I pulled you close to me,
by our little garden gate,
and we both looked happily
upon our small but cosy world…
you pushing backwards into me,
as you do when you get nostalgic
… and your warm, soft magic
made me giddy and dizzy with love.

An hour or so later, after our dinner,
just as the afternoon dimmed…
Jimmy whistled from the road,
and you frowned,
you had never liked him.
I was the 2nd Outlaw shot
in the Double Stage Coach Robbery
… I bled-out in a Cell near midnight.

But, you talked to me every day after
… and turned in my direction
each time I held out a ghostly-hand
unable to comfort, but so wanting to.
I watched you grow old with grace
and dignity and a gentle strength…
that made me tremble in absolute awe
as I stayed always close-by to your side.

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.