I am not going around there anymore.
Just glimpsing the top of the little country lane
that leads down to her rustic cottage
fills me with dread and sorrows my soul.
I remember it was always raining there
when I would come away,
poor heart in my helpless hands in knots.
A fraction of the man I was before,
it mounts up you know
and quite quickly too.
You should never dim the light
that shines inside you,
even for a moment,
it’s a blasphemy
against the magic of human nature.
She has a way of tapping into the parts
hidden and buried,
and peeling the scab off
that which is just healing
with a surgical skill
that is both frightening and malicious.
Before you know where you are
you are back to square one.
To re-climb that hill
which you’ve already slogged up
night and day,
fretting and worrying about, forever.
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography
published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids
instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet.
Buy his book ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096